


How to Be a Disney Couple

by Captain_Panda



Series: Disney World! [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canon Divergence - Post-Avengers (2012), Cuddling & Snuggling, Disney World & Disneyland, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Team as Family, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:42:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24889336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Panda/pseuds/Captain_Panda
Summary: The Sequel that Nobody Asked For: It's time for another day ... at Disney World!In this installment, our intrepid heroes test out more rides, make new friends, and experience even more magic in the most magical place on Earth! Oh boy!
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: Disney World! [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1801000
Comments: 17
Kudos: 30





	How to Be a Disney Couple

**Author's Note:**

> I know. I _know_. This has "I can't believe you've done this" all over it.
> 
> Enjoy yourselves, my friends.
> 
> Yours affectionately,  
> \- Cap'n Panda

“Aloha!”

“One does not simply _aloha_ in Mordor,” Tony stage-whispered, offering a tame nod to the passing cast member. To Steve, he added, “I feel like I ate an entire heavenly cheesecake from Mah-ze-Dahr. But I would not be conscious at—” Grabbing Steve’s watch hand as they walked around the Polynesian Resort, Tony confirmed, “6:30 AM if I had done that.”

Steve intertwined their fingers and begin swinging them between them. He couldn’t blame Tony’s surprise: it certainly had been a whirlwind first day. They had made it to three of the four parks—Magic Kingdom, Animal Kingdom, and EPCOT—and only missed out on shiny new Hollywood Studios. They still had forty-eight hours left on Disney property. 

It felt like all the time in the world. While the get-up-and-go attitude had led to a thrilling first day, the slowdown was nice. Steve could get used to lolling around. 

The black tungsten engagement band on Tony’s hand pressed against Steve’s palm, a gentle reminder of a rock-solid promise: _forever and always_. Smiling, Steve did not deign to share his thoughts aloud. The silence was nice. The silence was theirs.

The whole morning had been theirs. It hadn’t surprised Steve that, contrary to Tony’s declarations of eternal restlessness, they had both clocked out at some stray hour and slept like the dead. Allotting time for morning showers—tragically plural—they had gotten no less than seven hours of rest. 

(Standing in the uncompromisingly singular stall, Tony had nevertheless asked, _Don’t they have a presidential suite?_ To which Steve had responded, _No, but they have a lake_. Tony had actually popped his head around the shower curtain to threaten playfully, _I want a divorce_.)

Steve was grateful for the good night’s rest. He only needed a couple hours, so he actually felt a little dopey, but Tony needed time to recharge his battery. There were more exciting ways to celebrate an engagement, but Steve hadn’t been certain he could spell his full name after consuming five Mickey-Mouse-shaped Rice Krispies treats in a twenty-four-hour period, let alone get up to anything scandalous. They had a lifetime, he thought, squeezing Tony’s hand, smiling helplessly.

In a low, unused voice, Steve observed, “No, no Mah-ze-Dahr. They even _have_ a Florida branch?” As far as Steve knew, the bakery was a New York City specialty—one of the twenty-first century’s greatest considerations, as far as Tony was concerned. Far be it from Steve to argue: they didn’t call it a _heavenly_ cheesecake for its health.

Dancing around him, Tony pickpocketed his phone and asked with how-do-you-do brightness, “Wanna find out? I could go for—”

“No,” Steve chided, reclaiming his phone and pocketing it again. “No cheesecake. Not for breakfast. Don’t even know if I have a sweet tooth left.”

Making an affronted noise, Tony asked, “What kind of _fiancé_ says no to cheesecake?” Grinning despite himself, Tony added, “That sounds weird. Does it sound weird to you? I’m gonna get to call you my husband someday. _Oh, yes, that lovable oaf over there_ —”

“Hey,” Steve grumbled good-naturedly, freeing his hand and ruffling Tony’s hair. It only made Tony grin.

“Oh, don’t mind him, he’s a total _boar_ ,” Tony said, snickering.

“I don’t think I’m _that_ dry,” Steve said, sulking more in word than nature as he lassoed Tony with an arm around his waist, hugging him close.

“No, Steve—the _animal_ ,” Tony corrected. “You know, _boar_. Hog.”

“Tony, _you_ steal the blankets.”

“Don’t bring our bedroom into this,” Tony huffed, covering his mouth with a hand and scanning the area conspicuously for eavesdroppers. Steve already knew they were unwatched: he had ears like a—well, _hawks_ didn’t have great hearing, that would not do—

“What animal listens real good?” Steve prompted.

“Hm?”

“Eagle-eyed, but for ears?”

“Fox?” Tony tried.

—Steve had ears like a _fox_ , and the only sounds he detected were scenic, residential. There wasn’t a soul in sight. Apparently, the sleepy city didn’t stir before seven. “Quiet town,” he observed, completely reasonably.

“You’re an enigma, Rogers,” Tony said fondly, wiggling out of his hold but grabbing his hand, tugging him along. Steve tried to stifle a smile, but it was hard: he already loved the feel of the ring against his skin, somehow familiar, like it was meant to be there.

 _It’s tasteful_ , Tony had observed, examining his hand with an irrepressible smile.

 _Figured you weren’t a flashy guy_.

 _Boy, you know me so well_ , Tony had said with a grin, flopping back on bed and jauntily putting his gaudy turquoise-blue birthday hat over his face. _Not even a little flashy_.

“Now, here’s the _real_ question—actually, I wanna think on this one,” Tony cut himself off, dwelling on his own enigma. Steve didn’t push him on it, content to follow him through the cool doors into the main building.

As it happened, the quiet town only extended across the grounds—inside the lobby, human traffic was moving, lively, borderline noisy. “Well,” Steve announced, unable to help a little smile, “found the city. Now this—feels a bit more like home.”

“Mm,” Tony agreed, tugging him off to the side so he could lean into Steve’s side like a telephone pole, a warm sturdy post. Cleanly but still in an only-for-you-and-me undertone, he said, “I told Natasha we’d leave her alone and Bruce won’t get up for at least five more hours, and Clint can disturb us on pain of deca—deportation, so it’s just you and me, big guy. Where to?”

Taking in the scenery, Steve admitted, “I could go for a bite to eat.”

“Then a bite we shall have,” Tony agreed.

They consulted Tony’s phone, intending to shop around town—Clint had given the Kona Café a thumbs-up, and there were restaurants in all four parks, plenty of eateries to choose from—but they’d scarcely loaded the Disney app before they saw, front-and-center, a _reservation_ for _‘Ohana_ marked 7:30-9:00 AM. “Well,” Tony said dubiously, looking up at the matching sign on the opposite side of the lobby. “This bears investigating.”

It quickly became plain that mystical powers were at work.

While Tony Stark did nothing tentatively (Steve had once seen him reach into a tank full of sharks, pet one, declare, _Huh; try this_ , before Steve, somewhat less-than-enthusiastically, obliged and leaped back at the first brush of sandpaper skin underneath his fingers), Tony was far from his usual blitz-through-fire confidence as they approached the counter to ask about it. 

To further occlude matters, it was clear that the restaurant was empty. No sooner had they turned to about-face and fetch some Tonga Toast at the Kona Café than a cast member appeared to greet them. Reorienting breezily, Tony held up his phone and informed her politely, “Hi. I believe my app is broken.”

She barely looked at it, beaming at them like she’d been expecting them. “It’s right on the mark—and aloha, Mr. Stark.”

“She knows my name,” Tony told Steve conspiratorially, covering his mouth like it was a secret. “Do _you_ know my name?”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Steve blinked in surprise when the cast member invited, “If you would come this way?” It was just before seven, well ahead of their allotted time—surely, they would have to wait? Before he could raise a proper fuss, Tony was marching after her, so he followed them. Although he was mildly embarrassed to be offered any kind of special treatment, he was still grateful to be out-of-the-open.

Holding back, he listened in as the cast member told Tony, “We wanted to avoid causing a scene.”

“Naturally,” Tony agreed, bustling alongside her like they were old business partners. “But, I have to ask—why?”

“Well,” the cast member—Ally, Steve caught on her name tag—explained, “it’s the least we can do. You’ve done so much for so many—we’re honored to give a little back.”

There were plenty of tables to choose from, but Ally seated them at the farthest one from the entrance, complete with dividing wall from the rest of the restaurant, evidently to dissuade potential lobby-gawkers. Ally confirmed: “I imagine you’ve found a formula for getting around without drawing attention, but we’re happy to help.”

“That’s kind of you,” Tony said. Picking up his chair and arranging it to his liking in front of the big windows, Tony collapsed artfully into it. “Thank you, Ally.”

“You’re very welcome, Mr. Stark. Captain Rogers,” she added, holding both fore- and middle-finger held to her temple briefly, a civilian imitation of the more formal military salute. “Your server will be with you momentarily. But I should warn you—this is a character meal.”

“Uh oh,” Tony deadpanned, in the perfectly practiced tone that had sent plenty caterers into fits of panic to abate. “There had to be a price.” Steve could see the edge of amusement to his smile, knew he was pulling her leg.

Bravely, Ally began, “We can—”

But Tony just shook his head, promising, “It’s fine, my dear. Don’t change a thing for us.”

Smiling, Ally bid them, “Aloha, Mr. Stark—Captain Rogers.” Then: “If you do change your mind about the characters, just let your server know. They’ll see lots of friends today, no hurt feelings around here.”

Nodding regally, Tony said again, “Thank you, my dear.” Then, producing his checkbook, he signed off a $500.00 check without batting an eyelash, holding it out and offering tamely, “For your troubles.”

Ally balked: “Oh, you didn’t have to—”

“Please,” Tony insisted.

Humbled, Ally asked instead, “May I shake your hand?”

In response, Tony held out his free hand. “It’s an honor, Mr. Stark,” Ally said sincerely, clasping his hand briefly, letting it go and marveling him and Steve for a moment, like they really were something special. “It truly is. And this. . .” Shaking her head, she accepted the check and finished, “This is more than I can say.”

“ _This_ ,” Tony replied, gesturing eloquently out the window before propping his feet up on another chair, “is what money can’t buy. A little extra magic. You’re free to go,” he added, his own abridged version of _I’ve said too much_ and _I regret none of it_.

“You just made that girl’s year,” Steve told Tony softly as soon as she was gone.

Tony huffed. “People make more than $500 a year, dear.”

“Sure,” Steve allowed, "but they don’t get it as a gift. Not from a stranger.”

“Well—hardly a stranger; second names and all,” Tony said in his own quietly flustered way, tight-lipped, shoulders closing inward. “Not really a thing we need to—” Reaching across the table, he dragged Steve’s hand across it, clasped it in his own, and quipped, “ _Shush_.” Fixing his gaze out the windows, he added, “Can you _shush_?” And Steve knew it was his way of saying, _Don’t let me ramble; I’ll say something sappy_.

Sweeping his thumb over the back of Tony’s hand, Steve shushed. The call to silence wasn’t for him, anyway: it was for Tony. 

Tony didn’t like to expose himself to strangers—emotionally, at least; he relished shedding clothing in barely acceptable contexts. He’d once likened being honest to venturing into deep water: there was always that moment of terror when he found open water instead of rock bottom. Bit of an irony, Steve didn’t point out, for the guy who spent his Sunday afternoons at 50,000 feet. Somehow, for Tony Stark, it was more frightening to be his real, genuine, sweetheart-self than drop from the sky in a suit of armor.

Gathering himself meant accepting that nothing bad had happened because he had had a human emotion in plain view.

It really was remarkable, Steve mused: Tony Stark was one of the world’s greatest showmen—and a total sweetheart. He gave even when it hurt, made himself available to the very young, loved giving people an hour when they expected a minute. Even when he wasn’t feeling indulgent, he maintained an air of charming aloofness, offering a remark about not wanting to be _handed_ things.

Some would call such a thing another reflection of high class society looking down on a lower strata, but Steve knew it was just a euphemism for _don’t touch me_. Tony despised unwanted contact. When others presumed, he lashed out or, more often, retreated inward, loathe to be seen as churlish, uncooperative, _cold_. Steve did what he could to intercede, but even he could not quell the _desire_ people had to be closer to Tony Stark, their unceasing urge to slip nearer.

It didn’t matter that Steve knew _why_ they were drawn to Tony: it still rankled him. Tony deserved space. He was more than a work-of-art; he was a human-person. _He_ got to draw the lines in the sand. And nobody, not even Steve Rogers, was above reproach. It didn’t matter how long they had been together; Tony could always walk out of his hold. Steve backed down, every time.

It was because of that rapport that he learned more about Tony than most. He knew that Tony didn’t just tolerate the occasional hug—he was truly a close-quarters kind of guy. He longed to hold and be held. He was a bit like the stray cats Steve had found back in the day: he latched onto those he trusted and approached the rest with great care. To have his trust was a gift. More, even, then his own ability to reach out, Steve savored that the fact that when Tony wanted something to hold onto, Tony reached out to _him_.

It was a very special thing to be Tony Stark’s tether. 

The press of the ring against Steve’s palm was a very special thing, too.

At last, Tony squeezed his hand, then released it. He smiled ruefully, but before Steve could offer any sort of reassurance, Tony glanced over Steve’s shoulder meaningfully, drawing his attention.

A woman in a festive Hawaiian outfit appeared, balancing a plate with an entire _loaf_ of sweet-smelling bread on it. “Aloha,” she beamed, “welcome to _‘Ohana_. My name’s Julie; I’ll be taking care of you today.”

Salivating at the smell of fresh, hot dough, Steve resisted the urge to snatch it from her and down it whole, demonstrating admirable patience as she set it down on the table between them. He even nudged it closer to Tony, magnanimous to a fault, while Julie offered, “Can I get you started with some drinks? Water? Coffee?” When Tony nodded to both, she disappeared.

Utterly lacking any semblance of urgency, Tony peeled off a corner piece of bread, popped it in his mouth, chewed for an excruciatingly long moment, and finally sighed, “Steven, I want to be waited on hand-and-foot with sweet bread for the rest of my life.”

Demonstrating a truly abundant amount of patience, Steve waited until Tony finally pushed the plate towards him before reaching for a bite. Then he tore off a sizable chunk of sweet bread and hawked it down. It was only years of discipline that prevented him from inhaling the rest of the loaf as the taste of pineapple dough flooded his senses.

“Mmm,” he agreed, impatiently shooing the bread back towards Tony, who grinned and broke off another piece with the amused air of someone indulging a flock of impatient pigeons. 

Not waiting for him to send it back, Steve broke off another hunk and tried to make it last more than a quarter-of-a-second, but no cigar—down the hatch it went, just as quickly and just as astonishingly rich as the first bite, hot and sweet. Aloud, he said, “I take back my sweets’ comment.”

“Do you?” Tony replied, amused. Slowly, he pulled off another piece. 

Inspired to show him the proper bread-pulling technique, Steve peeled off a larger hunk, slid it on a plate towards him, and encouraged: “Go on, Tony, I don’t mind.” He busied himself with another sizeable chunk.

Defiantly, Tony pulled a piece off the cut Steve had plated for him. “Some of us like to _taste_ the bread,” Tony teased.

Steve gulped down the last of the bread right before Julie returned. “Great!” she said cheerfully, offering, “Would you like another—”

“Yes,” Tony drawled before Steve could even think to contend, _Oh, no, we’re good, thanks._

Four loaves of Hawaiian pineapple bread later, Steve’s enthusiasm had finally slowed to Tony’s original pace. Having had his fill two loafs prior, Tony sipped a cup of coffee instead while Steve finished off the last of the all-you-can-eat bread.

Not mucking around with portion sizes, Julie brought an entire pitcher of house orange juice. She needn’t have worried about the second glass: Tony took one sip before stating that it didn’t blend well, articulating his point with a wave at the chaos sprawled across the table.

They had almost cleared house at the Columbia Harbour House in the Magic Kingdom on their first day, and Steve could not imagine a repeat performance, but Julie seemed happy to serve them their _all-you-can-enjoy_ meal. 

The first skillet, with its hash and eggs and bacon, disappeared nearly as if the tablecloth had been pulled out from under it. Anticipating them, Julie brought out a second round promptly, which proved shareable and lasted a full two-and-a-half minutes. When she asked if they’d like a third, Steve didn’t pretend he wasn’t game—and he requested more game, specifically, which she was glad to deliver.

“Tony,” Steve said, half-drunk on food and happiness, pushing away skillet number five. At home, he didn’t _starve_ , not even close, but he didn’t “camel” often, either—eating an exorbitant amount of food or water in one sitting in preparation for long stretches without. He was used to living lean, to taking what he _needed_ and not an ounce more. The idea of filling his tank to the top was hard to fathom, but Disney was trying, and he was all for it.

No wonder Thor dined like a king, Steve mused, leaning around the corner to see if Julie happened to be nearby. He’d had the inspired idea that another loaf of pineapple bread would complement the ham rather nicely, and— _Save some for the children_ , he chided himself, turning towards the windows and sinking in his chair.

With his own feet propped up on another chair and a fruit plate in hand, Tony dined at a far sedater pace, looking like a Roman emperor. He wasn’t much of a breakfast guy— _coffee counts, Steve_ —which only served Steve’s voracious approval. “Pineapple on ham?” he remarked.

“S’nice,” Steve said, spearing the last bite. He paused, asked: “It is. Right?”

“Right,” Tony agreed, amused, like his opinion would determine the enjoyment of the meal.

When Julie returned with a plate of piled high with just pastries—Mickey Mouse-shaped waffles, Steve realized, inexplicably amused—he forewent syrup altogether to expedite the process. He was nearly done with the stack before Tony passed judgment: “Abomination.”

Swallowing, Steve defended, “Efficient.”

“No— _abomination_ ,” Tony clarified, nodding over Steve’s shoulder. Steve turned around to see what he was nodding at.

Lo and behold—there it was. The same friendly blue alien from outer space, wearing a white-and-yellow lei. The blue-alien-bear— _his name is Stitch, Steve_ —gave a full-body jump when he spotted them, like he hadn’t known there were people there. But, Steve knew, he couldn’t have _not_ known, having certainly been informed of their arrival. 

Pausing to wave at them jovially from across the room, he waltzed over. Without a word, Stitch pulled up a chair on the opposite side of their little dining nook and had a seat. Crossing both arms and one leg over the other, he looked out the window, nearly mirroring Tony’s pose.

“Like recognizing like,” Tony told Steve conspiratorially, trying very hard not to smile as he set the remains of his fruit plate on the table. He _did_ smile when Stitch mirrored him as they both lowered their feet to the ground. Then the blue alien took the lead, rocking forward like he would bounce to his feet before lingering on the edge of the chair, looking over at Tony.

Obligingly, Tony stood. Then he rounded the table as Stitch flung out both arms to greet him. “Hey—buddy,” Tony breathed, sounding almost winded as they met in the middle. He thumped Stitch on the back, not hard but with real appreciation. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Releasing Tony, Stitch pointed out the window at the lagoon, bent at the knee, extended both arms, and began to sway rhythmically. Steve was thrown, but Tony just nodded and said, “Never surfed.” The visual clicked, then, but before Steve could comment on it, the blue alien transitioned seamlessly into a flowing dance. Tony smiled. “No, no _luaus,_ either.” 

Utterly serene, Stitch continued to flow from side-to-side until Tony prompted, “Wanna take a picture?”

Nodding, Stitch cupped his paws together. Tony set his phone in them. Without fuss, Stitch trundled over to the big windows and lofted the phone, then returned to Tony’s side and held out the phone, offering a big thumbs-up. “Great—now, for one of _us_ ,” Tony said dryly. Nodding even more eagerly, oblivious or immune to any hint of playful wrongdoing, Stitch gestured him close, holding up an arm for him to duck under.

Steve offered, “I’ll get it,” and Tony held out his phone to him.

Just as Steve was standing to get the proper angle for the picture, Stitch pressed an audible _mwah_ to Tony’s cheek, a popping kiss that made Tony’s eyes crinkle at the edges. With a keen eye for surprises, Steve caught the moment on camera. 

Standing side-by-side for a more formal photograph, Stitch balanced one arm over Tony’s shoulders and held up his free hand, middle two fingers curled inward. Slanting a brief look at him, Tony mirrored the pose, hand held low at his hip but thumb and pinky extended. 

Just after they separated, Stitch offered another popping kiss to the cheek. “Hey, I _have_ a gremlin,” Tony said, unsuccessfully stifling a smile. He accepted the phone back from Steve and reached up to ruffle Steve’s hair, adding, “I can’t handle two.”

Stitch made a show of rocking back to look at Steve’s face, then cocked his head to one side. He didn’t stop at a tilt, leaning so far to the right he was nearly bowed in half, comically exaggerating his thinking pose, like a child would contemplate. 

Still tilted to one side, Stitch drew a big circle in midair with one hand. Then he lofted his left arm and locked it in a familiar pose. Smiling, Steve shook his head and assured, “Not here.” The old girl was in their room, along with Tony’s suit—emergency only.

“You are the _only_ one on the planet I would trust it with,” Tony told Stitch, as the big blue alien popped back to his feet.

Puffing up his chest proudly, Stitch resituated his invisible shield and planted his feet so wide they were nearly perfectly split. “Say _cheese_ ,” Tony instructed, taking a picture of Stitch alone before nudging Steve’s hip. “Go on.”

Sighing in mock chagrin, Steve alighted next to the alien. With a mixture of regality and good humor, Stitch maintained his shield-wielding pose. Steve folded his own arms across his chest.

“ _Lilo and Stitch 7_ looks _great_ ,” Tony announced.

Stitch shook with silent laughter beside Steve, then wrapped a blue arm around Steve’s lower back, giving him an affectionate half-shake, half-hug. Putting his own arm around Stitch’s shoulders, Steve tucked his free hand in his pocket.

“I can get one of all three of you?” Julie offered. On her arm was the one and only Mickey Mouse. Mickey Mouse! Steve felt like a kid again as the Mouse himself saluted, full handed and proper, unambiguously acknowledging his presence despite his lack of a uniform. Unconcerned with decorum, Stitch trampled over to Tony to check the photos.

“Brought a friend,” Julie announced unnecessarily, smiling as she stepped back and let Mickey, decked out in his own white lei and Hawaiian shirt, step forward.

“Hey, big guy,” Steve greeted softly, shaking Mickey’s hand, surprising himself with how friendly he felt towards the little guy. “How we doing? Wasn’t expecting to see you here,” he added, mirroring Tony’s words without meaning to, releasing Mickey’s hand. He set a hand on the Mouse’s shoulder as the Mouse put his own on the front of Steve’s shoulder and nodded twice as if to say, _I’m good, hoss, I’m good_. 

Then Mickey gestured at the dynamic duo. Steve looked up in time to see Stitch set his own lei over Tony’s head. Despite its comically outsized appearance, the project was evidently a triumph: Stitch stepped back and thrust both hands in the air while Tony grinned. 

Shaking his head in obvious chagrin and amusement, Mickey patted Steve’s shoulder as if to confide, _You see what I mean? It’s tough to be the Big Cheese_.

After a moment of self-congratulatory clapping, Stitch bowed his head for the lei. Carefully, Tony replaced it. Then he looked over at them and observed, “My, don’t _you_ two make quite the pair?” Undeflected, Stitch bowed to Tony, who turned back to him and said, “This is the sort of VIP treatment a guy could get big-headed on.” Bobbing back upright, Stitch gestured at his own head with both hands, then extended them outward. “Yes. I take it you already know who I—”

Nodding vigorously, Stitch looked over his shoulder to make certain the path was clear, then shuffled back three big steps and slid smoothly to a knee, flattening his other leg against the floor. Widening his stance, he planted a fist on the floor, looking up at Tony hopefully. “Three-point landing,” Tony said, impressed, holding up his phone and taking a picture.

Short in the knee, the big blue alien struggled back to his feet, accepting the arm-up that Tony gave him. In exchange, Stitch offered another kiss on the cheek that made Tony smile. “Gotcha covered,” Tony assured Stitch, adjusting his lei. “Really adds something, don’t you think?” he added, gesturing at his own neck before showing Stitch the picture, who nodded vigorously.

“You know,” Steve told Mickey, who tilted his head towards him, “I didn’t see it before—now I see it.”

With one last pat to his shoulder, Mickey released him. Steve could almost hear the smile in it, the warm, shared camaraderie. He decided, very much, that he liked Mickey most.

It wasn’t long before pictures were taken and Mickey was waving goodbye formally while Stitch blew kisses and stumbled backwards out of sight. Julie offered to bring around Lilo and Pluto, but Tony shrugged indifferently, so Steve just said, “Ought to be on our way, shouldn’t we?”

The bill revealed more Disney magic at work. Evidently, Tony Stark’s billionaire status had either been forgotten or ignored, as the total had been zeroed out. Steve found himself surprisingly warmed by the gesture: the cost was negligible, but the gesture was heartfelt. 

And not one to be outdone. 

Tapping his preferred travel pen against the table, Tony wrote _$2,750.00_ in the _Tip_ slot. Then he pulled out his checkbook, wrote a crisp $25,000. In the _For_ line, he wrote: _Divide evenly amongst yourselves_.

Assuming a full complement of staff, it was about $500 in the pocket of every _‘Ohana_ worker. Steve drained his water to keep from wheezing out, _Oh my God, Tony_.

At times, Steve forgot that Tony had _money_. Not roads-paved-in-gold _El Dorado_ riches—the sky had a limit, and with so much of his wealth channeled into Stark Industries and the Avengers Initiative, he definitely parsed it out—but Tony Stark still had _mountains_ of it. It hit Steve sometimes. 

Not in a _Buy me the Moon_ way, just an _I don’t need anything but you_ way.

Tony had scarcely pocketed his checkbook before Pluto came trampling over. Despite the early hour, he was _exuberant_. Stamping both feet joyfully, Pluto flung out both arms to hug them, posed for a quick photograph, then waved goodbye and trampled off, moving in such a kinetic way that Steve half-expected him to knock over tables. But Pluto managed to get to his destination without a single catastrophe, disappearing around a corner.

“This place,” Tony announced, shaking his head in bemused amusement, “is something else.”

* * *

“ _Please stand clear of the doors._ Por favor mantente alejado de las puertas _.”_

“S’nice of them,” Steve acknowledged.

“Mm?” Tony asked, looking out the Monorail window at the clear blue skies over the Seven Seas Lagoon, presenting his profile to the rest of the guests in the baby-blue sky-car.

“That it’s bilingual,” Steve replied, arms folded across his chest. “Why Spanish?”

“Neighbors,” Tony replied, still looking out the window.

“. . . Canada?”

Fixing him with a long-suffering look behind black sunglasses, Tony said, “Honey.”

Puzzling that clue for a long moment before realizing it was a term of endearment, Steve resisted the urge to pull out his phone and ask Siri. Then it clicked: “Oh. Mexico.”

“There it is,” Tony muttered.

“ _Coming up on the lagoon side is Disney’s wedding pavilion_ ,” the Monorail A.I. informed them. “ _Couples may exchange vows in a fairytale setting, complete with a picturesque backdrop of Cinderella Castle_.”

Sighing and giving up on some internal argument, Tony curled a hand around Steve’s as they pulled up to the Grand Floridian Resort for a pit stop. Steve resisted the urge to put his own arm around Tony’s shoulders and draw him close. They didn’t have the benefit of a crowd to hide in on the lightly-populated Monorail, although they _did_ have plausible deniability. Steve wondered if anyone would even recognize the real Tony Stark riding public transportation, looking predictably surly.

They didn’t have to put up with the ruse for long. Their next stop, the Magic Kingdom, was the place to be early in the morning: their entire car emptied out, leaving them with the baby-blue sky-car to themselves. No longer entertaining onlookers, Tony snugged into his side as they zipped off towards their next stop, the Contemporary Resort. They blitzed through the hotel before landing at the Ticket and Transportation Center, where they disembarked for their real ride: the Animal Kingdom bus.

Although they arrived at the actual park a record-setting twenty-six minutes later, Tony still threatened to gnaw Steve’s arm off out of unmitigable boredom. Steve could not help but point out, _I don’t see how that would make you less bored_ , while Tony replied, _You’re just not thinking outside the box_. Then Tony pulled out his phone to show Steve a short video featuring a cowboy asking for a hand from a space-man— _astronaut, honey_ —only to receive the space-man’s detached arm a moment later. “Bit messier in real life,” Steve rightly observed. 

Evidently, his unassailable logic was too great for Tony’s patience: face-planting against Steve’s shoulder, Tony refused to speak to him again until they were pulling to a stop. That was fine by Steve: he enjoyed the ride for what it was, a chance to digest a hearty breakfast and anticipate another day at Walt Disney World.

Being the largest of Disney World’s six parks—counting in their number two water parks, neither of which Steve had expressed an upvote for but, should it come down to it, would follow a majority vote; Tony had looked at him, then the reactor, then back at Steve, then said simply, “Barton with a hose is about as thrilling as I need”—Animal Kingdom had surprised Steve as Tony’s first choice for a second visit. 

“EPCOT doesn’t open until eleven,” Tony had shrugged, “and Magic Kingdom is a zoo first thing. Let’s go see _Pandora_.”

Who was Steve to complain? 

There was a lot to enjoy about Real Animal World. It smelled fresh and bright, almost cleansing compared to the Magic Kingdom, which smelled like a bakery along _Main Street U.S.A_., or EPCOT, which tasted of ozone. While it was a long walk from park gates to the designated _Pandora_ , they weren’t in a hurry; they could spare the time. “Carpe diem,” Tony said anyway, arm-in-arm with him and moving along at a good clip.

Thankfully, _Pandora_ —Avatar Land—was actually nearer to the gates than any other section of the park. It still entailed a long walk: first, through a forest of towering greenery; then, over a bridge, framed by a distant faux-Everest to the East; next, a brief excursion through a well-populated and sprawling marketplace underneath the _Tree of Life_ ; and finally, a sharp about-face to the Southwest, following a path towards the Land of Floating Mountains.

The magnificent architecture of Avatar Land was unmatched. Steve was truly impressed: as was Tony, who perused _Pandora_ with the infatuation of a child in a tree house. Tony smoothed his hand across polished railings before leaning over to look at the stout river flowing underneath them; he gawked mutely up at the Floating Mountains, puzzling out their infrastructure. He took it all in like a man on a mission, determined to observe every detail.

Steve indulged him, planting himself behind and to the left of Tony, forming a human barrier. With only dark sunglasses on, Steve remained invisible to the masses. It was amazing how effective such a simple disguise was, although a good portion of its success could be blamed on the teeming park: nobody spared them more than a passing _obstacle ahead_ glance as they zipped by.

At least it wasn’t terribly crowded in the World. New York transportation was more congested. New York sidewalks were also hit-or-miss in terms of orderliness. In Disney, it was a stretch to say people were model citizens as they milled chaotically to-and-fro, but they actually looked up when on a collision course, as if considering the possibility of being polite before inevitably steaming ahead, only to divert at the last possible moment when they realized their obstacle was built like a brick house and might cause them great inconvenience to plow into.

Only one person ran into Steve and, as anticipated, fell over as if they had hit a tree; taking Tony’s _don’t ever say sorry, it implicates you_ advice to heart, Steve said in the most deadpan voice he’d imagined had ever come out of his mouth, _Ow_ , and watched the other gentleman paw his way back upright, surveying the living tree he had collided with before offering a surprisingly sincere, _I’m so sorry, are you okay?_ Nodding gravely, Steve watched the man scamper off to join his party, looking like if he had a tail, it would be tucked between his legs. _Mark one for Captain America_ , Steve mused, resisting the urge to plant his feet more emphatically in triumph, maintaining his bodyguard pose.

Their late-May visit for Tony’s birthday had been really ideally timed. Spring Break—a new holiday—was behind them, and most youngsters were still in school, so the summer crowds had not filled in yet. While not empty, the parks were far from overflowing.

The only issue was the weather, but May was still considered one of Florida’s more tolerably humid months, albeit _hot_. Both conditions were bearable in moderation; the mornings and evenings were especially pleasant. 

Besides, neither Tony nor Steve was without experience in inclement weather. Tony had spent three months in a desert; and he had the undersuit back on to further cool him down. For Steve, after spending a lifetime in sweat-inducing climes, _pre_ -air-conditioning, it was nothing new. Being able to put on weather-appropriate gear was a gift (even if Steve still selected long pants and a long-sleeved shirt— _senior citizen clothes_ , Tony called them; _sunblock_ , Steve replied).

“Wanna see a dragon?” Tony asked suddenly, tugging on his elbow.

Steve blinked. Heart thumping hopefully, he nodded. Committing to nothing, as had been his modus operandi their entire trip, he followed Tony down the path. He would not get excited about seeing a dragon when he knew, all too reasonably, that the _hottest ticket in town_ might be unattainable on short notice.

Even before they’d shipped off to the most magical place on Earth, Tony had spread several maps out on the floor— _printed_ maps, how prehistoric of him—and handed Steve a pen before telling him, _Circle what you want_. 

Steve had dutifully examined them before returning to Tony’s side, unmarked maps in hand, and announcing, _I just want you to be happy, Tony_. Tony had rolled his eyes as he took the maps from Steve, valiantly trying to hide the fact that his ears had been red with a dry comment about _Okay, so—not Under the Sea_.

Steve hadn’t seen that particular attraction on the map—apparently, it was actually called _The Seas with Nemo and Friends_ now, which sounded decidedly less ominous—but Steve had still agreed that, yes, that did sound like a fair assessment of things he would not particularly enjoy. And, so far, he couldn’t complain about any of it—he’d enjoyed everything they’d done.

Aware that he was breaking his own resolution to go with the flow, heart thumping hopefully as they approached _Flight of Passage_ , Steve was glad he hadn’t gotten his hopes too far up when he saw the Standby line wait time—barely a quarter-hour after park-open, the digital sign showed a glowing green _90_. A ninety-minute standby line! Despair welled up inside him, giving up on the idea at once—

“That’s not bad,” Tony said suddenly, completely unexpectedly, tugging on Steve’s hand and leading him towards the standby pathway set amid the garden of Pandorian delights. “Unless _you’ve_ got a date?” he added, pausing to turn to face Steve when Steve didn’t move, astonished.

Hurriedly shaking his head, Steve said, “No, no date,” and followed as Tony grinned toothily and tugged him along, moving at a semi-brisk pace.

“Good,” Tony said. It was a bit—they were in Disney World, there was nothing remotely _illicit_ about what they were doing, but there was something delightfully _childish_ in choosing to spend over an hour _in line_ , just to see a dragon. “Have we even been to Disney if we haven’t waited in line?” Tony added, turning so he could walk backwards, holding onto both of Steve’s hands. “Hm?” Brimming with amusement, he released one of Steve’s hands and turned back to see where he was going, beholding a waterfall up close and adding in wonder, “It’s a marvel of engineering. And look up there—you can barely see the loop on that one.”

 _The loop?_ Steve wondered, watching the real falling water to his right before turning to drink in the Floating Mountains to his left. Tony tugged him along and they curved twice around the wooden queue lines before stepping suddenly entering the echoing, haunting Banshee cave.

Steve’s first thought was, _It’s like Lascaux_. He did pause as Tony put a steadying hand on the wall and said, “Holy—wow.”

In France, Lascaux was home to a cave system that featured some of the oldest human art in the world, painted roughly _seventeen thousand years ago_. With its red and ochre rocks, the Banshee cave— _dragon dwelling,_ Steve thought, as the lowing drone of a beast rattled from the ceiling—seemed far more alive than the still pictures of red handprints and bison galloping in frozen motion. There was even a blue Banshee print on the wall, wings fully extended.

 _Beautiful monster_ , Steve thought, sliding a hand from wingtip to wingtip, shivering in delight.

There would be critics who would call it Fake Nature, but Steve saw it as Human Nature, their mythos exemplified, a longing for brighter blues and flying dragons, for a connection with every living thing that existed, according to Tony and every science book he’d ever read on the subject, in the framework of his very bones. _We are already connected_ , Tony said. _That’s not me being facetious; it’s in the DNA of the Earth. Every living being—one ancestor_.

Every living being. One ancestor.

It was thrilling, almost devout, to imagine the Banshee as an extension of human life, even if only its imaginative, ecstatic _longing_.

Heart swelling with joy, Steve followed Tony through the empty cave system, glad his night-vision was outstanding as the darkness began to edge in, the brilliance of the morning theme park World dissolving under the cave’s interior conditions. It was both noisier, with the droning unseen Banshee in the roof, and much quieter, with the exterior crowd eliminated, the forward crowd unseen. _Where’s the line?_ Steve mused, as they wound their way through the cave and its queue bars and entered another room.

A modest version of the cave system, followed by an abbreviated control room, comprised the entirety of the FastPass line queue. Steve was astonished at the detailing of the Standby line as they stepped into a control room, well-lit but interior, a bunker with exposed overhead lighting and wide-open doors.

The howling sounds from the caves became that of wind on snow, softer, less animal, less like the mythical cry of the beast. _It’s not here_ , Steve thought, taking in the orange-splashed door and its blocky print, _! AIRLOCK: STRICTLY FOLLOW A-DOOR OPERATIONAL PROCEDURE._

“Why don’t you lead?” Tony suggested in a rare moment of genuine unease. Steve had no issue with that. The room was hugely accommodating; he could have lied the length of the floor twice over. Swapping out with Tony was as simple as stepping around him and letting Tony take his hand again, holding it tightly. Steve had no fear, besides; there was nothing ahead that he would not put his own life on the line to keep Tony safe from.

“It’s SCP containment breach up in here,” Tony muttered. He explained: “It’s a video game—PC, actually—you work as a security guard, keep track of killer mutants, and they all do extremely horrible things, and this is not a good bedtime story. Holy wow.”

They passed through two such rooms. Then Steve noticed the gray-scale effect of encroaching darkness. He felt slight resistance behind him, the faintest tug on his hand, before Tony followed again, breezing on lightly, “Honestly, the theming is incredible; I can’t believe how many stops they—this has to be half the budget of the Land,” he said, gawking, as Steve rounded the corner and promptly halted, amazed.

It was . . . it was _beautiful_ , and haunting, and uncannily real. They gawked at the giant rocks, stained bioluminescent green and blue, looming large to their right, arching overhead. Steve’s night-vision adjusted back to normal, allowing the vividness of the colors to come through. He actually gasped aloud. Tony managed, “How in the fu—fudge,” before breathing, “This is where dragons _should_ live. My God.”

With the same exposed white lighting overhead, Steve happened to look to the right and see a sign, printed in dim white lettering, that read _USE CAUTION: FALLING ROCK AND DEBRIS_. “Tony,” he breathed, pointing at it. The blue light from Tony’s reactor, just visible under shirt and undersuit, turned as he did to take in the sign. He gulped audibly.

“Theming,” Tony assured, clipped, but even he seemed dubious. He tugged Steve closer and, when Steve obediently paused for him, hopped up onto his back, notching an arm around his neck. “All right, explorer. Let’s go find a dragon.”

It was as much a comfort for Tony as Steve, Steve thought, immediately glad to have him there, where he could grip Tony’s legs for added support. Suddenly the rocks, looming large when he was exposed and alone, seemed only beautiful with Tony next to him. Tony was, quite literally, guarding his back, both arms notched around his neck, chin on his shoulder.

Passing through the dark, mountainous terrain, Steve heard a familiar clatter of stones clicking over stones, the very beginnings of a nightmare: _avalanche_. Tony went rigid, but Steve knew what real danger sounded like. And so, ignoring the way Tony’s neck tightened nearly to the point of pain around his neck, Steve kept walking, refusing to unduly alarm him.

Then they were scot-free. The rocks held out. Steve’s heart beat slowed. Tony exhaled noisily overhead.

“Theming,” croaked Tony, sounding equal parts impressed and relieved and glorying in the moment, like it was the kind of price one should pay to see a dragon. They passed underneath another wide archway and finally, finally, saw people ahead, shadows in the darkened wonder-garden that comprised a Pandorian bio-lab. “Society,” Tony uttered, making no move to release him as Steve followed the path slowly.

Steve did pause near the entrance to read a sign written in radioactive blue ink that read, among other pertinent and scratched out information, _EXTREME TOXICITY LEVEL_. “Don’t worry about that,” Tony said, patting Steve on the chest firmly. 

Shrugging internally, Steve decided to take his advice to heart and follow the path while Tony went on, “What’s life without a little noxious poisoning between plants, huh?” Leaning forward to examine the glowing blue flowers off the path, Tony admitted, “My God, they look real.”

“Aren’t they?” Steve asked, surprised to hear they weren’t. He paused at the end of the line and squinted at them, trying to see the proverbial man-behind-the-curtain before finally admitting, “Sure look real. Don’t eat ‘em,” he added.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Tony said lightly, amused. “Jiminy.”

“Jiminy,” Steve agreed, squeezing his leg and standing patiently while Tony pulled out his phone and took a picture of the blue flowers. “S’it like being on a safari yet?” he asked.

“I don’t know; you haven’t told me whether or not they prefer to rear their young in pairs or groups,” Tony drawled, flicking through his phone absentmindedly.

“Groups,” Steve decided, looking at the mushrooms clustered in groups of ten or more. “Definitely groups.”

“Mm-hm?”

“Oh yeah.”

“What about Banshees?”

“Pairs,” Steve said immediately.

“Awfully decisive,” Tony mused, still flicking around with his phone, hiding it around Steve’s shoulder to mute the brightness in the dark room, one arm strung around his neck for balance.

Steve said, “What’s the word? Mate for life?”

“Monogamous?” Tony drawled.

“Mm-hm.”

“Seem to know a lot about Banshee lore. Gonna have to get James Cameron on the horn,” Tony said, squeezing his shoulder with the arm still around his neck carefully. “Tell him there’s a new director in town.”

“Like albatrosses,” Steve said, mentally jotting down the name _James Cameron_ to ask Siri about later. “You know. Long-lived. Don’t imagine they’d—give up on each other.”

“You really are a hopeless romantic,” Tony said, but he sounded amused, even pressed a kiss to the back of his head, adding, “No, keep going, I wanna hear this.”

Shrugging, pleased but wondering if he was somehow missing something important, he volleyed back, “What do _you_ think?”

“No, this is your story time,” Tony retorted, still busy with his phone. “Why in pairs?”

“Well,” Steve said, then paused, mulling it over. It had seemed so obvious, but put to the test, it was harder to explain. At last, he settled on, “They’re like people. Independent, you know, they don’t need—a herd, or a flock, I s’pose. Don’t need—society. Rules.”

“Rebel,” Tony muttered fondly.

They shuffled forward with the crowd, moving a good dozen feet ahead, the same pattern as before. Loading groups—flights of Banshees. It made Steve smile to think about. “What kinda dragon needs a king?” he mused aloud. “They don’t need us.”

“No,” Tony agreed, finally putting his phone away and leaning forward, hooking his chin on Steve’s shoulder, both arms loose around his neck. “But we need them.”

“So, they’re altruists?”

“Mm-hm.” A brief pause. Then, like he couldn’t help but contribute—especially with the living, breathing world of Pandora around them, nocturnal noises occluding the mutter of human conversation around them, muffling their own, he added: “I think dragons are whatever we want them to be.”

“Better,” Steve said. Tony made an inquisitive noise. “They’re better. They’re . . .” Helplessly, he said, “They fly. The smartest horse in the world never flew.”

“Pegasus,” Tony said, but he gave Steve a light, fond squeeze around the neck as they shuffled along again. “You know, we’re tribal. We _do_ need people. A lot of people. It takes a village.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, affectionately thinking of his own village, his newest tribe. “We do. We do need people. That’s why dragons are . . . better. They don’t _need_ people. At all.”

“So, they’re like _gods_ ,” Tony mused.

“Guess so,” Steve said, although it was a strange, sacrilegious territory, to utter the name in conjunction with anything that people did not die for. But if dragons were real—and oh, if blue flowers were _real_ , nearly so, then surely the dragons painted on the wall could nearly be—he was certain there were people who would die for them. He knew he would. “I dunno, Tony. They’re dragons. They’re big and beautiful and they shouldn’t be . . . tamed.”

“Is this a travesty, then?” Tony asked.

“No,” Steve said. Then, with scarcely a moment’s contemplation, he rattled off, “No, because you cannot sit on the back of an animal that does not want you there. You have to take care of it. Then it might let you.”

“Will work for food,” Tony drawled.

Steve sighed. “S’pose,” he muttered.

Tony lifted his chin and ruffled Steve’s hair. “I’m sorry,” he said, a rare apology but with real feeling.

“Don’t be,” Steve assured, squeezing his legs. Tony set his chin on Steve’s shoulder again. “They’re—”

“If you say ‘not real,’ I’ll bite you,” Tony said. Then, against his words, Tony bit down on Steve’s shoulder and muffled out, “Vicious beast that I am.”

“Terribly,” Steve drawled, heart aching with fondness as he freed one arm to ruffle Tony’s hair, who growled in mock annoyance. “What was so interesting about your phone?” he asked, as Tony gnawed down and finally released him.

“It’s a surprise,” he said.

“Okay,” Steve replied, hitching him up higher as they moved forward again.

It was the fastest ninety minutes of Steve’s life—fast, because it was only fifty-five minutes from garden to loading station once the twenty-five minute walk-up and ten-minute overestimation fee had been accounted for. They were only in the garden for maybe a quarter-hour before they made it to the next area, a ten-minute walk-through that felt like the longest stretch as it was little more than an unembellished tunnel, pushing Tony to his phone again, where he asked, “How do we feel about EPCOT for lunch?”

Steve replied, “Sounds great, Tony.”

They rounded the corner. Tony had just pocketed his phone in time to see the lab coming up—and what a lab it _was_. Steve was tempted to call out, “Hello, J.A.R.V.I.S.,” just to hear the pleasant, _Hello, Captain Rogers_ , in return. Not so much for its sake, no, but because it felt odd to walk into the room without greeting the artificial butler, like walking into a stranger’s home, unannounced.

Regardless, he could not help but admire the various oddities on display. They had plenty of time, another quarter-hour from door-to-door, but it felt like they had only arrived at each station before they were being chivvied along. Early on, Tony hopped down to admire the curios, face nearly pressed to the glass as they stared at a living _Avatar_.

“So that’s what they look like,” Steve uttered, fascinated.

Tony just flexed his fingers, then jumped, actually jumped, as the Avatar twitched upwards, its tail— _tail!_ —swishing in its sleep. “My God,” Tony uttered, for the fourth or fifth time in the last hour, before grabbing Steve’s arm and tugging him after the queue line, like he both couldn’t stand to look at it another moment and wouldn’t leave if he didn’t move on immediately.

Steve still glanced over his shoulder at the twitching blue giant nestled in its cradle, wondering idly, _What’re you dreamin’ of?_

Then he thought, _Dragon riding_ , and grinned, wishing with a sudden pang of longing that he’d had the same privilege all those years in the ice. Then again, he mused, as they approached the pre-flight room, he’d never have wanted to wake up if he’d spent seventy years bonding with a Banshee.

And if that had been so, then he’d never have met Tony, who stood grimly before the large screen when their group was instructed to articulate wildly (even Steve could not understand how a room full of wiggling humans was supposed to impress the Banshees, but it did make them all laugh in fits and starts). Yet Tony lit up like a kid on Christmas morning when they stepped into the actual flight room.

There was no illusions in the dark flight room: no towering monsters, only strange bikes. But Steve understood the art of it all, the why and what of the show, the _how_ it all worked. The bikes were not meant to be bikes but vehicles to another world, aiding their jump from reality to fantasy, from machines to the backs of dragons. With science and magic so kin, he didn’t know if it even mattered that none of it was truly real.

Did it matter if the blue flowers did not respire, if they were still breathtaking to behold? Steve didn’t know, didn’t even know if he cared what the lines were as he slid into his seat, snugged up tight to the future beast, heart already thumping in anticipation. He gripped its lifeless metal neck and experienced a moment of trepidation, wondering, just for a moment, if it would still be wonderful, if he’d built it up in his head in such a way that it’d disappoint, even devastate him, the next time around.

Then the lights dimmed. Steve's mouth went dry as his dragon, _his_ Banshee, drew in a breath, lungs expanding against his legs. Suddenly, it was _there,_ right there with him, breathing and alive and as real as a saddled horse, but _the smartest horse never flew_. Steve laughed in undisguised delight and wonder that he’d found _it_ again. Him. It was a he, Steve decided, gripping the Banshee’s neck as they flew, ecstatically taking in the view. 

In the moment before the jump, he thought the magic might diminish. But his fears proved utterly unfounded: it was only more enchanting to immerse himself in the other world a second time. He was able to take in the details more, the now-familiar feel of a dragon underneath him comfortingly real. The shock of the first flight was more palpable a second time around. He could appreciate every movement with even more joyful anticipation.

The endeavor was not a mere duplication of their first flight, but the second outing on the back of a dragon, like a routine morning flight, clockwork steady. It was familiar and easy and still wondrous to its very bone. _Attaboy_ , Steve bid the Banshee as they slowed, as they _absorbed_ the Banshee’s real world, his sides heaving against Steve’s legs. _Attaboy_.

It was still over all too soon, because he knew that climbing off a dragon’s back would always be over too soon. Yet—the same feeling of irreconcilable _loss_ didn’t hit him, not the same way. It was, instead, a mixture of bittersweet and surreal, almost overwhelming fondness for both the means to experience it, and for the dragons themselves, their other-, almost-world.

 _Thanks, pal_ , he thought to his dragon, casting one last look at the unpresumptuous bike, leading to another world, before gathering Tony under his arm and leading the way out the doors.

They didn’t talk about it ‘til they were outside again. Then Tony exhaled, “I love her so much,” and Steve laughed, understanding, this time, and rubbing his back.

They passed by a shop and Steve observed, “Hey, look—little dragons.” Tony arched both eyebrows, leaning up on his heels to see over the heads of the little crowd that had gathered around the little dragons, maybe fifty of them perched on winding tree limbs. Steve asked idly, “What’s she look like?”

Tony looked over the nest, thought for a long moment, then nodded and said simply, “Blue.”

Steve nodded and scanned the rows for himself—forest colors, yellows and greens; even reds, lilacs, like flowers—but he already knew his own was blue, too. Blue had always been his color. 

He smiled as a kid was fitted with a yellow beast on her shoulder, asking, “How big do you think they grow?”

Tony sighed, then said with surprising fondness, “I love you to death,” and intertwined their arms.

* * *

They dawdled around Pandora in preparation for— _one last stop_ , Tony revealed with a wink, pulling out his phone and showing off what had to be last-minute FastPasses for _Na’vi River Journey: 10:10_.

“Magic hour,” Steve remarked, amused, sitting in the alcove next to him. “How’d you—”

“My compulsive boredom comes in handy,” Tony said, pulling Steve’s hand over and engaging him in a thumb war. “Disney rewards those who play their little games. Refresh, refresh, refresh, champ.”

“You’re a miracle worker,” Steve said, pinning his thumb down. Tony let out a disgruntled noise. Steve added, “Can’t let you win every time, Tony.”

“You could,” Tony harrumphed. “My ego wouldn’t hate it.” Flicking through his phone one-handed, he added in good spirits, “I figured we’d hit up EPCOT next,” and squared off for a second round of thumb war, showing off FastPasses for _Test Track_ at 12:50 PM, followed by _Journey into Imagination with Figment: 1:20 PM_ and _Living with the Land: 1:40 PM_.

“I really just wanted to book _Test Track_ and _Soarin’_ ,” Tony explained, pinning Steve’s thumb down triumphantly, “but they only let you book one big one at a time. Shoot for the Moon as many times as you want once you exhaust the first three slots—figure _Figment_ and the _Land_ are at least close to our target destination. Worse comes to worst, standby for _Soarin’_ usually sits at an hour,” he finished with a shrug, pocketing his phone and glancing to the far left. “Probably won’t drop us dead, but if it does, I blame you.”

“I can accept that,” Steve said, watching him stand. “Where we headed?” he asked, looping an arm around Tony’s back reflexively before retracting the offer. The morning heat was quickly becoming oppressively muggy. Even though the undersuit was almost cool to the touch, Steve figured there was no point using his own body heat to negate the effect.

“I’ll explain when you’re older,” Tony said with a vague hand-wave. He kept walking. Amused, Steve followed.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, all became clear.

“Steve,” Tony chastised, “you’re supposed to be my impulse control. What is this?” Gesturing at the dropped jaw of the [blue Banshee](https://diskingdom.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/03/file_8842fa4b.jpeg) on his shoulder, he added, “This is Impulse Control. The lack thereof. This is _Zero Inhibitions_.”

“I dunno,” Steve said, pulling out his own phone and holding up the camera, smirking when Tony cocked his head, unimpressed, expression particularly flat with his dark sunglasses. “I think it’s kinda cute. Say _cheese_ ,” Steve instructed, having cottoned-on to one of the twenty-first century’s more prevalent “memes.” See: old dogs _could_ learn new tricks.

“No,” Tony said, using his free hand to clamp the Banshee’s mouth shut. “N-o.”

Shrugging, Steve took the picture, smiling bigger as he said, “Honestly, that’s perfect.”

Tony rolled his eyes and reached up to cup the Banshee’s head with a hand. “Don’t listen to him, you’re a menace. I’m gonna call you _Actions Have Consequences_.”

“I’m gonna call her _Blue_ ,” Steve said. He laughed at the subsequent and absolutely cutting look Tony gave him behind his sunglasses.

“You are not allowed to name our children,” Tony growled. “Assuming we _have_ them, which is _not_ something we are discussing in a Disney park, but— _Blue_?”

Shrugging, Steve drawled, “ _Red_ seems like it’d give her a complex.”

Reaching up to pinch his own nose with one hand, still covering Blue’s head with the other, Tony grumbled, “I’m not gonna call it Blue. I’m gonna call it _Don’t Let Men Name Babies_.”

Laughing again, Steve said, “I’m happy you’re happy, Tony.”

“Who said anything about happiness?” Tony grumbled, but his ears were definitely turning redder. Steve was positive it wasn’t from the heat. “This is a crisis of the soul, Steve.” Flicking Blue’s wings open and shut several times in quick succession via the little control switch at his hip, he added, “You know, with enough speed, this could actually serve as a viable fanning solution. I’m a genius. New name: _Viable Fanning Solution_.”

“Bet with a bit more fin, she’d really fly,” Steve mused as Tony snapped the wings shut again. “You know. Bulk up the wings some, like the one on the wall.”

“Who said anything about a _she_?” grumbled Tony, clicking the Banshee’s jaw open and shut several times with the same control panel, a fidgeting movement that created the feeling that the dragon really was mirroring his movements, making Steve smile. “I said its name was _My Designated Driver Stole My Credit Card_ and that’s final.” Scratching the dragon’s chin lightly, Tony went on, almost more to himself than Steve, “Ratio’s completely wrong. Need to do some serious mod’ing. Lighten up the belly, broaden the shoulders, extend the—” 

Shaking his head abruptly, Tony said, “No. I’m not going to make a flying Banshee toy. Stop it. This is your fault and I’m blaming you. Look at this.” With more care than a toy strictly merited, he plucked the dragon off his shoulder, cradled it in one hand, and demanded, “Now I have to take care of this. If I drop it and it breaks, I have to take of _that_. Do you see what a logistical nightmare you have allowed me to create?”

“Can I hold her?” Steve asked gently.

Blinking, surprised, Tony held it out wordlessly. The dragon had a good heft to it, more like a rock than a feather, but it was still light in his palms as he lifted it, affixed it to Tony’s stock-still shoulder, made certain the little claws were pressed to the magnetic cuff—but not so tightly they would hurt—and finally stated, “It looks good on you, Tony.”

Flicking the Banshee’s head from side-to-side a couple times, Tony sighed and said, “All right, her name is _Blue by Eiffel 65_.” Grabbing Steve’s wrist, he added, “ _Na’vi River Journey_ time. It’s next to _Flight of Passage_. Lead the way.”

Happy to, Steve thought, _Fake Nature is amazing_ and led the way.

* * *

Fake Nature—was— _amazing_.

Perched between them, Blue seemed to glow on Tony’s shoulder, but the real source of awe was all around them. _All_ around them. Steve could not stop _looking_ at it, trying to take it all in simultaneously, swiveling and twisting and gawking in unrepentant awe. No one point demanded his attention, the entire scene commanding depth and realism, no inch spared from ground floor to canopy.

His night-vision acuity actually amplified the experience. On boat rides like Magic Kingdom’s _It’s a Small World_ and EPCOT’s Mexico pavilion attraction, there wasn’t much else to see that wasn’t already in plain view. Even on Magic Kingdom’s darker boat ride, _Pirates of the Caribbean_ , the paucity of light on stormy seas juxtaposed with well-lit showcases made gains minimal. But on the _Na’vi River Journey_ , as soon as they rounded the first corner, Steve’s eyes began pulling light from every direction, infusing the scene in stunning, radiant, ethereal _blue_.

He said aloud, more than once, “Tony, oh, Tony.” Gripping the side of the boat and Tony’s free shoulder as loosely as he dared, he resisted the urge to climb out and explore the moonlit landscape in unbridled wonder. The serum didn’t provide modest gains: every detail was illuminated in stunning, mystifying, soft-blue light. It felt like he was actually on _Pandora_. The water was real, and the flowers looked real, and even the floating creatures overhead spun around. Floating creatures!

He tapped Tony’s hip and gestured at them, but there was so much to look at, the landscape revealing what the lab had only hinted at, marvels, so many of them. He stared, barely breathing, utterly enamored. Beside him, Tony, the chronic fidgeter, was perfectly still, twitching his head occasionally, his own eyes as wide as they could go, drinking it all in.

Then it was Tony’s turn to tap Steve’s knee urgently and point.

It was one thing to see an Avatar floating dreamily in a tank, another to see one gesturing with both arms outstretched, exulting in a language he didn’t know. Steve’s heart began to pound—it was seated, but it must have stood _ten feet tall_ , and its bright yellow eyes found them as their little boat drifted nearer, its song unwavering. Tony gawked, “Oh my _God_ ,” and Steve wanted to ask, _How in the world did they get a real person from a fake place?_

Aware that it would only make him seem out-of-touch to give the question voice, Steve stared, riveted and no small amount unnerved, at the _real_ blue alien, aware that it was rude to stare but afraid to look away. He was certain she would materialize right next to them if he did. Every instinct he had told him not to allow that to happen. 

All at once, Steve regretted unintentionally allowing Tony to sit closer to her as they drew closer, very aware that it would be easy for her to unfold from her perch, approach the water, and reach out with inhumanly long fingers to grasp their vessel, halting it in its tracks. What would transpire next, he could not begin to imagine, but his instincts said, _Be very careful_.

Then, all at once, Tony relaxed next to him. Nudging Steve in the side several times, Tony held up both arms, then gestured to one wrist, rubbing the underside vigorously, before repeating the gesture at the elbow, a surely-meaningful gesture that eluded Steve’s grasp.

It wasn’t until they undocked shortly after and Steve had gently but swiftly chauffeured Tony well away from the dwelling of the blue alien before Tony explained, “God, I love maintenance crews.” Gesturing again at his arm, repeating the same wrist and elbow touch, he added, “I don’t wanna ruin the magic, but—just an animatronic.”

“Anima-what?” Steve said.

“You know—like the pirates,” Tony said. “It’s a robot,” he added.

Steve blinked. He turned fully around to look back the way they had come, a fairly good distance back down the path, and repeated, “ _That_ was a robot?”

“Horrifyingly, yes,” Tony agreed, gesturing very pointedly at his wrist. “One that apparently breaks down, at least occasionally—can see the metal, you know, where they can get access. Bless their Disney hearts for ruining the magic. My God.” Giving a full body shake, he added, “I’m somewhat frightened to see what they’ve done to _Figment_ , but I _do_ want to try for those _Soarin’_ FastPasses, and if we survived that, I think we’ll survive whatever they’ve done to the beloved purple dinosaur.”

Still not understanding what had just transpired in plain view, Steve said again, “ _That_ was a robot?” They could not be talking about the same thing. Its yellow eyes had blinked. Its mouth had _moved_. It had looked right at him! It had a _tail_!

“I know,” Tony agreed, patting his chest. “It’s very convincing. But you can still see the loop, if you’ve got an eye for that sort of thing.” He winked.

Letting out a sound caught between a halfhearted laugh and a bewildered little _huh_ , Steve said, “It’s a trick. Right?” Tony had to be pulling his leg.

“Yes,” Tony said, hitching his arm around Steve’s, subsequently hiking the Banshee up his shoulder. “Let’s go. The Shaman of Songs isn’t real and can’t hurt you.”

Back of his neck prickling, Steve said, “What if she _gets out_?”

A laugh, a real one, burst unexpectedly from Tony. “Well, then,” he began. “You’ve seen _Jurassic Park_.”

He had. He almost urged Tony to hop aboard and ignore the _no running!_ rule he had not considered breaching on their trip. “Tony, it could—” It was perhaps too graphic for the rarefied air of Disney World to say, _Devour children_ , out loud, so he rephrased, “ _Hurt people_.”

“Disney is very aware of the monsters it entraps,” Tony said, sounding decidedly amused. “I am very, very, very tempted to take you to _Dino Land U.S.A._ ”

“What?” Steve said, shooing him along in front, because it was faster than the dawdling arm-in-arm pace Tony seemed content with and _Tony, my God, we have to get out of this Zoo!_

“You know. They have a _DINOSAUR_ attraction,” Tony said, swiveling and walking backwards slowly, stroking the Banshee’s chin and explaining, “guaranteed to make you jump ship. God, I’m really tempted,” he added, grinning maniacally. “Getting there and back would only add a two-hour sojourn to our journey, I could definitely rebook FastPasses. Who needs perfect hearing, anyway? It’s only 112-decibels—”

Realizing the implications of what he was advertising, Steve said, “You—they— _dino_ —what?” Real Animal World was _horrifying_. Urging Tony to turn around and focus on where they were going, _away_ , he shooed Tony as briskly as he could. 

When Tony planted his feet and began, _Honestly, have you_ ever _seen a dinosaur outside a museum? Like, with skin?_ Steve gave up on moving him properly and resorted to more tactical measures.

“Steven _Grant_ ,” Tony grumbled, as Steve tucked him over a shoulder and moved briskly down the way, long strides cutting the twenty-minute walk time in half. “Look _less_ like you kidnapped me, for the love of everything good.”

Realizing he had a decent point, Steve paused, set him down, and allowed Tony to hop on his back instead, adding, “If you let go, I _will_ —”

“Mush,” Tony interjected, one arm notched around his neck, the other hand curved protectively over his dragon. “You know, somehow, I did not consider this totally-natural consequence of introducing you to new things. Hey, why didn’t you fight the pirates? They seemed pretty real.”

“Don’t be silly, Tony,” Steve scorned, “they’re _actors_ ; they’re not _alive_.”

“God, I want that on a t-shirt so badly.”

“You know what I meant,” Steve grumbled, notching his arm around Tony’s legs and high-tailing it outta there, as briskly as a walking pace and a long stride would allow. “They’re—it’s a _show_ , Tony. But they’ve got a real live _alie_ —” Shaking his head in horrified wonder, he asked, “Didn’t _they_ see _Jurassic Park_?”

“No,” Tony said, whistling a cheerful tune he didn’t recognize. “I knew I should’ve taken you on _Splash Mountain_ , you just need to find your laughing place.” Squeezing his neck gently, he added, “Good thing we skipped _Expedition Everest_. I’ve heard there’s a Yeti up there.”

“I do not like this place,” Steve deadpanned, half-serious, half-jesting, because he did, he _did_ like this place, on the whole, but oh, God, _REAL_ animal world? Real aliens? _Dinosaurs?!_

Parking them on a bus in truly record time, Steve let out a very huffy breath, not from exertion but simple relief, wanting to shout at the driver, _Get us outta here!_ He restrained himself, barely, even though he curled his arm so fully around Tony he nearly pulled him into his own lap.

Kissing his chin, Tony said, “You’re adorable.”

Grumbling wordlessly, Steve said nothing, jigging a leg as he tried not to tap his foot impatiently. He let out a relieved sigh only once Animal Kingdom was completely out of sight, feeling his heartbeat slow as he muttered, “Tony, this place is something else.”

“Would it make you feel better to hold the Banshee?” Tony asked dryly.

“Would it—” Steve began, before finding his hands occupied with the toy beast once again as Tony snuggled comfortably against his side, rested his cheek on his shoulder, and nearly in the same breath fell asleep.

Sighing, Steve stared down at the little blue beast, silently but sternly told it, _No funny business_ , then carefully hooked it onto his own shoulder, not caring that its claws dug into the meat of his shoulder.

It, well, in a strange way, it _did_ make him feel better—that, or Tony snoring into his shoulder did. Even the simple comfort of taking a bus ride on a nice, clear, blue-skies kind of day helped him find equilibrium. The combined realization that the little blue animal on his shoulder wouldn’t take a bite out of him, that the bus ride carrying them to-and-fro parks and resorts would not willing cart happy families off to their deaths, and that with Tony by his side, harm could not befall them—all of it took a load off his shoulders.

Sheepish but grateful, Steve pressed a kiss to Tony’s temple. He relaxed slowly into his own seat, watching the World go by, wondering if he’d ever stop making a complete loon of himself in the twenty-first century.

Recalling Tony’s own reaction helped lighten his heart. At least he wasn’t the only one surprised by what Disney could pull off. If he was more reactionary than most, well, at least he’d never be caught with his pants down. Better to be safe than sorry, he thought. _Anything_ seemed possible in Disney.

Checking his watch—10:45, which gave them two hours ‘til their 12:50 _Test Track_ FastPasses—he rested his cheek against Tony’s head and decided to enjoy the scenery.

* * *

“ _Please stand clear of the doors_. Por favor mantente alejado de las puertas.”

“You know, at this rate, we could be at the Magic Kingdom by six,” Tony mused, nudging Steve’s foot, almost hopefully.

“Still say there’s a crash coming,” Steve reflected sagely, adjusting the little blue dragon newly-affixed to Tony’s shoulder. He himself had snagged the baby-blue backpack from their room and its stash of three Mickey Mouse-shaped Rice Krispies treats. While he had heroically resisted the urge to open the bag and consume any on the Monorail, he _had_ managed to devour one on the blitz back from the hotel room to the Monorail.

It was a pit stop Steve had rationalized for the backpack, which a) contained three Mickey Mouse-shaped Rice Krispies treats, b) offered storage space for any potential EPCOT goodies, and c) served as a carrier for their newest pet, should they grow tired of parenting.

Tony had refused to part with Blue, insisting that “bonding with a Banshee is a delicate process, Steven,” which was code for _pry this from my hands and die by my sword_ , so Steve offered the backpack as a compromise. Heck, he’d gladly carry the little thing around if it made Tony happy; he liked the way Tony seemed to light up as he flicked its wings open and shut.

Tony Stark wouldn’t be caught dead with one in New York, but in Disney, it seemed like a perfectly normal occurrence. Why wouldn’t he have one? Steve thought, amused, as Tony managed to tap out a text and somehow operated the dragon’s mouth at the same time, clamping down on his finger as he reached out to rub its head. It was kind of cute, and its jaw strength wasn’t exactly going to take off a finger, no matter how much Tony shook the little head back and forth before releasing him.

Besides, Steve didn’t mind making a roundabout voyage to snag the backpack, having traveled lightly to _Pandora_. He liked riding the Monorail; it was fun and interesting. _Kind of like a flying car_ , he justified, while they waited for the Monorail to arrive at the Polynesian Resort station. _I literally pilot a flying suit of armor_ , Tony huffed back, unimpressed. _Yeah, but the principle of the thing,_ Steve insisted, before their ride in the sky returned.

“Crash, eh? Aren’t you an optimist?” Tony remarked dryly. Then he huffed and, when Steve made an inquisitive noise, showed Steve his phone. Front-and-center was a picture of a beaming Clint Barton sitting next to a petrified, both-hands-over-his-face Bruce Banner, strapped into a two-person coaster, while Natasha Romanoff sat one row behind them, looking intensely bored. “Guess they made it to _Hollywood Studios_ ,” Tony mused.

“What ride is that?”

“ _Rock ‘N’ Roller Coaster_ ,” Tony said, leaning into Steve shamelessly as the Monorail slid out of the station. “Look,” he added, pointing at the text: _RNR R#1 baby!!!!!!_ “ _Rock ‘N’ Roller Coaster_ ,” he repeated, as Steve spent too long deciphering the text.

“Good for them,” Steve said, as Tony scrolled up and showed him another picture, this time all three of them in a row, Bruce looking like he was trying to slink down in his seat while Clint flashed a big thumbs-up and a lottery-winner smile at the camera, Natasha looking like she’d been dragged against her will, her gaze still dead-on. “Surprised they got Nat to join ‘em,” he mused.

“You kidding? She’d ki—karate-chop Clint for going on _Tower of Terror_ without her,” Tony replied, automatically censoring himself for the youngsters on the very opposite side of their car and nodding at the picture on screen. “It’s a big park, they’re probably gonna be there a while.” Texting back, he added: _You get there at park open?_

_10 AM. RNR R#2 baby!!!!!!!!!_

“Place your bets,” Tony drawled. “I’m gonna say Bruce cries by round three.”

“Good ride?” Steve asked.

“Heard only good things,” Tony said, sounding wistful. “Not for those weak of heart,” he added, conspicuously tapping the arc reactor under his shirts and smirking ruefully. “I’m a rebel, but I’m not an idiot. I know my limits.”

Slinging his arm around Tony, grateful the air-conditioned Monorail allowed for such indulgences, Steve said, “Magic Kingdom by six, huh? Thought you said we were shooting for a _Soarin’_ FastPass before three? Why the gap?”

“You sweet summer child,” Tony said, smiling as he pulled out his phone again. “Still got the _World_ to see,” he added, in a way that was certainly an inside joke. Before Steve could press him about it, he was rolling his eyes at a new picture Clint sent, of himself beaming in the corner of the screen while Bruce stood in the queue with him looking very doleful and Natasha looked up with both eyebrows raised as if to say, _For real?_

Tony texted him, _Happy campers_. Then he held up his own phone as they were pulling into the Magic Kingdom station, inviting Steve, “Act like we love each other.”

Rolling his eyes fondly, Steve pecked him on the cheek as their car emptied out, holding it just long enough for Steve to take the picture. “Oughtta get you some ears, then it’d be a real Disney picture,” Tony said, eyes still hidden behind his dark sunglasses but ears slowly turning red again, amusement and contentment plain in his tone as his fingers flew over the keys. “Baby in the middle and everything,” he added, sending the pic off with the caption, _My line’s better than your line_.

Clint was a fast texter, but Steve swore Tony could win awards with his clip—he was _zippy_ , and it made the fact that Steve spent well over a minute to write out even concise messages amusing. _Phone calls are a beautiful thing_ , he always told Tony, who replied, _I like instant gratification, Steven_.

Clint wrote back in short order, _I want one!!!!!!_

Laughing, glad they had the car to themselves as they zipped off towards the Contemporary resort—beauty of traveling _from_ any park mid-morning, Steve mused: nobody was leaving—Steve said, “Gonna break his heart.”

 _No, Steve’s mine_ , Tony texted back, which made Steve roll his eyes, trying and failing to repress the fondness in his voice as he said:

“Aw, Tony, you know what he meant.”

Tony insisted, “No, really, I’m a taken man.” To Clint, he added, _Get your own._

Steve’s phone buzzed. It was Clint: _Tony’s being mean to me. :(_

Steve passed his phone to Tony, who typed back: _Sucks to suck. Listen to Tony_.

_:( Tony, I know it’s you._

_I have no idea what you’re talking about_ , Tony typed back. His own phone buzzed again. with the grin of a guy who was clearly enjoying such shenanigans, Tony balanced his phone on top of Steve’s and read off:

_Steve’s being mean to me. :(_

Rolling his eyes, Tony responded: _Sounds like a you-problem._

_Can’t you just make out with him or something. :(_

_Yes_ , Tony typed back, while Steve sighed, plucked his own phone from the pile, and typed back, very plainly:

_Get your own dragon._

_Just looking out for you, man. :(_ Clint responded. _Can I have one? Please?_

“Menace,” Tony said, flicking his phone to its _Do Not Disturb_ setting and proprietarily doing the same for Steve. “They’re adults, they’ll be fine,” he added, when Steve considered flicking it back on. “C’mon,” he added, tugging him to his feet, hitching the little blue backpack higher on Steve’s shoulder and instructing, “We got places to be and FastPasses to make.”

Checking the time, Steve drawled, “Yeah, we’re in a real time crunch.”

“Exactly,” Tony said, smiling and pinching his nose briefly before releasing him and leading the way.

* * *

“It’s nice to know that they _design_ these parks for people with car batteries in their chests,” Tony wheezed, taking a seat on the bench underneath the World’s Largest Geometric Object.

“Can I get you a water?” Steve asked, standing in front of him. “Coffee?”

Tony had been shaking his head, but he perked up visibly at the _c_ word, making doe eyes at him from behind the glasses, Steve was sure. Then Tony lowered the glasses entirely, folded them, and looked up at Steve with surprising sincerity to say, “I will love you forever if you do.”

Resisting the urge to beam, Steve said, “Terrific. Be back in . . .” Checking his watch, he finished, “Less than fifty minutes.”

Saluting, Tony made a show of sprawling across the rock bench, stuffing the backpack underneath himself as an improvised pillow, and drawling, “ _Do_ have fun.” Holding the dragon in one hand over his stomach, he added, “Get two.”

“S’that include one for me?”

“No,” Tony said, smiling, sunglasses on again. “You know the drill.”

“Aye, aye.”

Steve—well, he wasn’t the world’s most _technologically savvy_ individual, to put it lightly, but he could read a map. It wasn’t hard to spot, among the dozens of options, a joint labeled _Joffrey’s Coffee_. He decided on the spot that he would eat the bracelet around his wrist if it didn’t sell coffee.

The magic bracelet— _Magic Band; it’s a bracelet, isn’t it?; right, but it’s—you know what? You’re not wrong—_ the magic bracelet was as good as a credit card in Disney World, which was quite alarming, in a _don’t steal my wallet_ way, but in a pay-on-the-go way, he had to admit it was sort of handy, rolling up his sleeve rather than fussing around with cards. He always hated asking for Tony’s card, and Tony had all but insisted he not bring cash, and, well, it seemed like a kind of charming compromise.

Balancing all three drinks in both hands, Steve returned in a jiffy. He announced, “Your Highness.”

“Oh, is that him?” Tony drawled, sitting up laboriously. “My knight in shining armor, back from his quest? Here I thought it’d take you half the day.”

“Got lucky,” Steve said truthfully. The joint had been located on the other side of the Ball. Even without a map, he could have brute-forced the scavenger hunt pretty successfully. “For you,” he said, holding out the apex of the triangle.

Tony took the cup, drank deeply. In an affected drawl, he said, “Why, I’d marry you, if I wasn’t already taken.” Indicating the ring on his hand, he flashed an absolutely devil-may care grin. “A shame. You seem like you’d make a nice husband.”

“Now you’re gonna make me all soft,” Steve harrumphed, chest full of marshmallow goodness as he sat on the ground, right in front of Tony. “That good?”

“Dear, _ants_ live down there,” Tony said instead, tugging on his shirt. “Up.”

“Think I’ve never seen an ant before?” Steve replied, sipping his own coffee. It was nice, a good medium roast, nothing too heavy, nothing too outrageous. Tony seemed to enjoy introducing him to coffees whose best qualities were their caffeine, which had no effect on Steve. He preferred standard brews, rarely needed a pick-me-up, anyway. Besides, he’d had canned coffee, back in the day—anything brewed fresh was a step up from _that_. “What’s it gonna do, steal my magic bracelet?” he asked, shaking it around.

“Yes,” Tony said seriously, still sipping his first cup. Situating the dragon on his shoulder, he picked up the backpack and set it on the ground next to Steve. “Don’t let them get in there.”

“Lots of goodies to steal from here,” Steve agreed, fishing out another Mickey Mouse-shaped Rice Krispies treats eagerly. “Want one?” he offered.

Tony said, “Mmm, later.”

Shrugging, Steve said, “Suit yourself, hoss.” Slugging his own coffee down in record time, nearly scalding his throat in the process, Steve chased it down with the marshmallow treats. He offered, “Still got two left.”

“Those go fast when you’ve got a family to feed,” drawled Tony, sniffing at the second roast before taking a sip. “Two for two, Rogers.”

“Thanks,” Steve said, trying not to preen. “So what’s this so-called _Test Track_ got to—”

“Nope,” Tony said dryly, rubbing a hand over his hair briefly, mussing it up. “You have to experience it.”

“Experience it, huh?”

“Mm-hm.”

“What about you?”

“Well, I _have_ sports cars,” Tony huffed. “I just have to see what the fuss is about.”

They still had well over an hour before their FastPass window, prompting Steve to ask, “You wanna grab some real chow?”

“Heathen,” Tony said affectionately, standing up and making a noise, _thank you_ , as Steve took his empty coffee. Making certain Blue was steady on Tony’s shoulder, Tony added, “I was thinking we could dawdle.”

“ _Dawdle?”_ Steve repeated. “Unheard of.”

“I know,” Tony agreed, hooking an arm around Steve’s. “Sounds like fun, doesn’t it?”

Heart so full, Steve carefully maneuvered the rest into the pack, slipped it on his shoulder, all while keeping his arm steady as a stand in storm. “Sounds wonderful,” he agreed honestly.

* * *

It was wonderful.

EPCOT was the most . . . well, in a word, _adult_ of the four land parks at Disney World. There wasn’t the same air of pixie dust or the aroma of sugary treats permeating it. Aside from a few thematic elements—big cartoon fish on a building here, fake planets on a building there—the park was conspicuously absent of unreal elements. Instead, it was grounded in stunning architecture. At its center, a mystifyingly calm lake resided.

Even the park’s centerpiece, the giant _Ball_ , was hardly Cinderella’s Castle or the _Tree of Life_. It was just a—a _geodesic sphere_ , Tony called it. A thing that was emblematic of the park as a whole. The would-be City of Tomorrow, an Experimental Prototype that never bloomed into a functional model—something crazy and wonderful and futuristic, all right.

“That’s the Mark VI,” Tony said affectionately as the Monorail passed on a track overhead, its route looping around the entire park before it docked. “Not as pretty as mine, but—still good.” For all his quips about flying cars, he was clearly fond of it, too.

They veered to the right and passed by Canada—“Sister country,” Steve said, making Tony sigh and squeeze his arm, well aware of the rest of the statement, _To the South, right?_ and his inevitable faux-exasperated response: _No, dear_. “Look,” Steve added, spotting a cluster of white birds near the water. “White irises.”

“Ibises,” Tony corrected, squeezing his arm. “Ibises, dear.”

While he could bypass popcorn without weeping, there was a mouth-watering smell emitting from the next section of the park, and something—something deeply, warmly familiar about it all. “I swear I know it,” he said, looking around, certain he’d be able to place it, _give him a second_.

“Would Mary Poppins help?” Tony added, nodding towards her, standing in an alcove.

“Mary Poppins!” Steve exclaimed. It was as if he had stepped onto another planet and heard the _God Save the Queen_ as soon as he stepped out of his interstellar bus. All at once, he said, “Oh, I am a fool. It’s London.”

“United Kingdom,” Tony agreed, squeezing his arm, pride and affection in his voice. “I think they were going for a British colonialism theme,” he added, making Steve laugh, a little laugh that he tried not to give often because it made him feel silly, Captain America didn’t really _laugh_ , but they were in Disney, he could be a bit of a boy again. 

The delicious smell was emanating from one of the shops, and in a rare moment of decision-making, he tugged Tony along the way, and they ended up with a basket of fish and chips, and it was—it was, in its own weird way, _home_. Home, sweet, God-save-the-Queen home. He’d spent—“Two years,” he told Tony, picking up a chip and chewing it, savoring it.

“Two years, I spent overseas, and a good third of it in the U.K. Ma always said I should get out of the city, city’d eat me alive. Don’t know if she meant into the _War_ ,” he added, smiling, fishing out another chip. “Sure was a heck of a time, yanno? Getting to go across the—‘cross the Pond, they call it. ‘Cept I don’t think it goes both ways. Just a neat thing, to see the world, even if it was in such a . . . you know. State a’ disarray.” Shrugging, he picked at the fish and added, “That’s enough about me, I’m sure you don’t wanna—”

“No, please,” Tony said, sounding genuinely interested, sunglasses off and everything, eyes bright and fixed on him.

“Well,” he said, a touch embarrassed, because he didn’t like to bring up the War around civilians, it was bad enough around other military folks, but at least there was _some_ good to mention, “well, you know. I liked the U.K. Their boys, you know, British crown bought all the tea it could get its hands on, and back then, it was either tea or canned coffee, keep morale up, better’n anything you could get in a bottle. 

“There was a time when _Captain America_ ,” Steve couldn’t help but say the name _in_ - _character_ , dry and patriotic and a _touch_ self-deprecating, “drank more tea than coffee. Think the boys enjoyed it, you know? I tried not to be too _outrageously_ American,” he added, recalling Falsworth’s plea with a smile. “I don’t know if I succeeded, given all the, the _propaganda_ , but. It was a good time. I liked it. Good people. Good food. Didn’t eat much, but, you know. God save the Queen,” he finished, dusting off the little basket, wiping off his hand with a napkin.

“Gentlemen, you’ll have to forgive me for intruding,” Ms. Poppins stated, turning up like a lady from the lake, her lovely little umbrella held lightly in hand. “I could not help but notice you two seated her on my way to the garden. Whatever are you doing out in the sun?”

“Brings out my eyes,” Tony said with a real, devil-may-care smile, standing and holding out a hand. “My _lady_ ,” he said, and it sounded very warm on his tongue, his bow so refined it made Steve feel boorish for remaining seated a moment longer.

“Quite all right,” Mary Poppins assured, smiling in a confined way, like they were sharing a secret. “This won’t do,” she added, gesturing along. Blinking, surprised, Steve arose, watching with amusement as she remarked, “Whatever is that creature on your shoulder? Were you _aware_ there was a creature on your shoulder?”

Grinning, Tony offered her his arm, then offered with enviable quickness, “It’s a, uh. Figment.”

“Oh, Figment,” Mary Poppins said, smiling. “Yes, I’ve heard of that, the children have told me all about him, he lives just down the road. Dear, I thought he was all purple. Are you quite sure that’s him?”

“The man who sold him insisted,” Tony said with a dry edge to his tone, covering her hand with his own like they were a couple as they moved through the semi-crowded little space. “Pardon me, Miss Poppins, but I—”

“Yes, of course, bring your gentleman friend,” Miss Poppins said.

That was Steve’s cue, he realized, belatedly spiriting away the remains of the meal. Feeling only a touch buffoonish for doing so, he put the small blue backpack back over one shoulder. “I’m up,” he announced. “I’m up.” 

For good measure, he freed Blue from Tony’s shoulder so her wings wouldn’t catch on Ms. Poppins’ hat. With only a silent, _Sorry, pal_ , he tucked the little dragon into the backpack, zipping it shut to be safe.

“So,” Mary Poppins began, carrying on as though she hadn’t interrupted herself. She walked ahead with Tony at a leisurely gait, arm-in-arm like two people who had known each other half their lives, the red pavement and blue-black lake contrasting Tony’s casual wear and Mary Poppins’ white-and-red dress. “Is _this_ the one?” Mary Poppins finished, tapping the black ring on Tony’s finger with the flat of her white-gloved hand, bearing an astute smile. Steve’s heart beat fast—not in nervousness, no, but mere— _fondness_ , overwhelming and sudden.

 _Yes_. 

Abruptly realizing this was one of those picture-perfect moments, Steve pulled out his phone, ignored the missed messages from Clint, and pulled up the camera. He took one photograph of the two of them before he pressed the little record button, holding the camera perfectly steady.

“Well,” Tony said, as they shifted from the main road towards a side path that led into a garden, “if he was, the only person in the world I’d entrust with such a thing would be Mary Poppins.”

“A very wise man,” said Mary Poppins, covering his hand with her own. It conveniently hid the ring from plain view. “I always say, ‘a thing of beauty is a thing worth keeping’ and this is a thing of beauty.”

“You are a very lovely lady for saying so,” Tony said, his voice warbling in that, _Oh no, Mary Poppins is saying nice things to me_ way that Steve sympathized with. He ended the recording so he could enjoy the moment in real time.

Tony and Mary Poppins strolled towards an alcove that was not noticeable from the main path. Stepping into a strange little white structure, Mary Poppins took a seat on a long, rounded bench. Tony asked, “May I?”

“Of course, my dear,” Mary Poppins said, nodding at the bench next to her. “Will you be joining us?” she asked Steve. “It’s a lovely gazebo.”

“Is that what this is?” Steve asked, looking around it. Gazebo. What a wonderful word.

“I like to come out here, listen to the water,” Mary Poppins said lightly. “Come, dear, you’ll see.”

Sitting on her opposite side, marveling at his life, Steve admitted, “I remember—I remember a book, by Ms. P.T. Travers. She wrote books about you.”

“Yes,” agreed Mary Poppins. “People love to tell stories. They’ve written a few books about _you_ , haven’t you heard?”

Looking at his feet briefly, Steve said, “No, they’ve written books about _him_.”

With her white-gloved hand, Mary Poppins chucked him very gently under the chin. “No, chin up, dear, it makes you look sulky. Of course they’re about you. There wouldn’t be a him without you. It would be silly to parade around a mask. Here,” she added, offering him her umbrella—by Golly, her magical umbrella. “Take it.”

Tony watched him, amused, as he closed his hand around the handle. “See,” she added, as Steve sat there, holding onto it for a long moment. “Doesn’t go anywhere. The magic,” she said, taking the umbrella back and tapping Tony on the nose with the very end, “is in the _person_.”

“You’re a very lovely lady,” Steve echoed sincerely.

“Well,” Mary Poppins said, smiling. “It’s easy in this world of darkness to forget there are still sources of light. You gentlemen needn’t forget, either. Have you plans for the day?”

“Well,” Tony said, shrugging. “Dawdling.”

“ _Dawdling_ ,” Mary Poppins repeated, her tone halfway between a laugh and a shake-of-the-head critique. “Oh, my dear. My dear.”

“All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,” Tony said, making her smile and tap him on the shoulder with her umbrella, like she was knighting him.

“Clever boy.” Happily, she added, “No, you two mustn’t _dawdle_. You must _experience_. Yes. That’s the ticket.” Looking up, she addressed a blue-shirted cast member who had finally caught up to them. “Ah, there you are, Tim,” she called. “Gentlemen, would you like a portrait? And then perhaps Tim and I can help you with your _dawdling_ problem.”

Amused, Tony said, “I think that would be wonderful. Right?”

“All right,” Mary Poppins said, holding out an arm for each of them. “If you would?”

Tony offered Tim his phone, and Tim took several portraits of them, including one with Tony holding the umbrella, which made him grin like a kid. Steve said, “I’m good,” when she offered it to him.

“Yes,” she agreed. “You certainly are. The both of you. Now. Tim?” she said, stepping out of the gazebo. “I think you know how to fix this.”

“Happy to,” Tim said cheerfully, adding, “It’d be my honor, Avengers.” He held out a handful of tickets, the same universal FastPasses as before, adding, “These’ll work on—”

“We really shouldn’t,” Tony interrupted, sounding both dry and almost bashful. “There’s only so much magic we can—”

“I won’t hear of it,” Mary Poppins interjected, prim but smiling. “No, I will not allow any such nonsense to occur under my watch. Tim, please carry on.”

Still beaming, Tim finished, “These’ll work in any park, but if you’re planning on staying here in EPCOT, we’d definitely recommend _Soarin’_.”

“Oh, that’s a good one,” Mary Poppins agreed. “Yes. Ride that one,” she ordered.

“We shouldn’t,” Tony repeated.

“But you will,” Mary Poppins said with a nod and a smile. “Think of it as a . . . gift.” She nodded at Tim’s hand, then took Tim’s arm. Humbly, Tony accepted the handful of tickets Tim held out to him. Tipping her white hat, Mary Poppins bid them, “Have a very magical day, gentlemen.” Then she turned and walked off with Tim, returning the way she had come.

Still holding the tickets out from his body, Tony turned on his heel to face Steve. Then he took Steve by the hand, only to release him, as if realizing where they were—in painfully plain view, _noticeable_ , not as Avengers but simply as two people—before he nodded towards the gazebo.

“Y’okay?” Steve asked gently, both amused and serious as they returned to the bench under its awning. Tony huddled under his arm mutely, breathing against his shoulder. “Hm?” Tony shook. Steve hugged him tighter, hushing, “Hey, s’okay. She seemed nice.”

“People aren’t nice to me,” Tony told his shoulder, barely audible. “What kind of alternate dimension _bullshit_ is this?”

“Oh, Tony,” Steve said, amusement falling away. People were nice to Captain America—they had kicked skinny Steve Rogers into the trash, but they had always been respectful for Captain America—but Tony Stark? “People love you,” he said, pressing his cheek against the side of Tony’s head. “So much. You’re so damn lovable.”

Nodding, more _I know, I know, I get it, get off me_ than sincere irritation or conviction, Tony clung more tightly to him. Steve didn’t get up, only rubbed his back, stroking the smooth undersuit and the skin underneath with comfortingly heavy movements.

At last, Tony gulped down a breath and uttered, “Shit, it’s 12:45,” and Steve replied:

“Hey. Take a breath.”

Relaxing against him, Tony lingered, wasting nearly two full minutes in perfect silence. Then he took a breath. He let it out slowly. And he said, “I sincerely love you.”

“I know,” Steve said, squeezing him. “I sincerely love you, too.”

When Tony pulled back, he sniffed once even though his eyes were dry and put on his dark sunglasses again. “My eyes are tired just _looking_ at your eyes in the sun.”

“I love you, too,” Steve said, squeezing his hand. “Hey.” When Tony cocked his head, Steve added, “C’mere.” Wary but obliging, Tony shuffled closer, then maintained a very stoic expression as Steve held up his phone for a self-portrait. _It’s called a selfie, Steve_. “There,” Steve said, sending the picture off to Clint. “Now, we don’t have to talk to him again for at least three more hours.”

“Lookin’ out,” Tony said, smiling in the small way he did when he was secretly happy but didn’t want to say why. Like he was watching a black slime ball transform into a pancake. Tony was a genius and a billionaire and a kid at heart. He had his favorites, and they included dragons and slime balls and selfies with his fiancé. “Now c’mon. We got a twelve-minute walk and . . . two minutes to get there. Fifteen-minute grace window,” he added, pointing a finger at Steve with a thoughtful tilt to his head. “Now, that’s a thought. Let’s go.”

Steve offered to carry him, but Tony took his hand, said, “I live for danger,” and set off at a brisk clip.

* * *

“Easy,” Tony panted. “Breezy. Beautiful.”

They leaned against the outer wall of the _Test Track_ facility, having scanned their Magic Bands at the little FastPass station leading up to it in the nick of time. “Doin’ all right, chief?” Steve asked, while Tony breathed deeply, then hunched forward. “You know, I can—” he added, voice taking on a tone of concern.

Tony shook his head vigorously. “Don’t you dare,” he grumbled. “I am no old man; I require no _Life Alert_.” Defiantly, he slumped to the ground. “I am here by choice.”

Joining him, blue backpack slung carefully over one shoulder, Steve remarked, “Hey, take it easy. No rush.”

“Take it easy, he says,” Tony wheezed, hunching forward over his knees. “I’m going to _die_.”

Rubbing his shoulders with a hand, Steve said seriously, “You sure you don’t want me to—”

“Figure-of-speech,” Tony grunted.

Long minutes passed. “Tony?” Steve finally asked.

Grunting wordlessly, Tony breathed out, “All right, I’m up. I’m up,” he insisted, slapping Steve on the back before using him as a prop to get to his feet. “Hurry up, we’ve got FastPasses, you know,” he added. “I wanna know what makes this so much cooler than my self-driving Audi.” He grabbed Steve’s hand and tugged him towards the automatic sliding doors leading into the _Test Track_ facility.

The answer was air conditioning. “Oh,” Steve said, a full body shiver slinking over him as they stepped into the futuristic space. “Hey, look,” he said unnecessarily, as Tony stepped up to a full-sized silver car on display in the center of the floor. “What kind of car is—”

Tony stared at it for a few seconds, then said, “[2011, Chevrolet Mi-Ray,](https://pictures.topspeed.com/IMG/crop/201103/chevrolet-miray-conc_1600x0w.jpg)” with a gleam in his eye, spinning to face Steve and pulling him aside so a young couple could pass by in the narrow cattle-railing queue. “I saw the broadcast. _Miray_ means _Future_ in Korean.” Turning back to the car, leaning as far as the railing would let him, he added in an undertone, “Hey, sweet guy. Didn’t expect to see you here. This my comeuppance for ‘food poisoning’?”

Whistling like he was calling a dog, Tony approached the car and explained to the car in an undertone, “Now, I don’t wanna hear it, I was actually sick. First time in history,” he told Steve, looking back at him, “I hate missing car shows. The good ones, not the ones for—let’s just call ‘em glorified parking lots,” he said, returning his attention to the futuristic car parked on the podium. 

“Look at _you_ ,” Tony crooned, sounding genuinely delighted, like a coin collector who had found a one-in-ten-thousand coin. “They don’t make ‘em like they used to, do they, bud—you’ve got shiny optimism all over you. And a—1.5-liter, turbocharged-engine,” he rattled off, as neatly as if he had constructed the car himself, whirling to face Steve, leaning back against the railing as he explained, “everything that year was turbocharged.”

Turning back to the silver car, he added in a fast undertone that bespoke a need to speak the words before the door closed on the opportunity: “Wish I could take you for a spin, such a blast from the past. Probably get one-eighty horsepower, crunch some numbers—bet I could stretch it, triple it, double your carriage, I know, I _know_ , it ruins the _aesthetic_ , but we’d ditch the bulky front plates, anyway, streamline you—that’s where the dual engines are,” Tony explained, hauling Steve back towards the _front_ of the FastPass line, just so Tony could indicate the twin flaps on either side of the hood, sharply inclined. “Gotta put ‘em somewhere.”

Steve smiled, amused and warmed. It was an honor to be beside Tony Stark, to be beside him and his stellar mind as he observed something marvelous and rambled on: “Yeah, you’re a fast-and-dirty ride, aren’t you, but where’re we gonna put those engines, huh? Bet we could hug the ground more, get some of that wheel-well space—not gonna lie, I’m old school, I like the look, and we don’t need to make you an Audi, you’re a Chevy, you’re supposed to be a streamlined—all right, sweet guy,” he added, tugging on Steve’s hand, pulling him farther along the queue abruptly. 

Then, like he could not bear to let the car out of his sight, Tony added, “Hang on,” and fished out his phone, taking not a picture but an actual _video_ of the car, sweeping it slowly from bumper to bumper. “God, isn’t it cute? It’s like a puppy,” Tony said, beaming at him, looking like a kid with the biggest lollipop in the store as he wound his arm through Steve’s. “Quick, get me away, or I’ll take it home.”

“I don’t think it’s for sale,” Steve said, because there wasn’t even a placard explaining what it _was_ , and Tony actually laughed, said:

“Buddy.” Tugging him firmly aside, then leaning back against the railing, Tony said, “No, now I have to say this. Car shows. People go to church to find God? I go to car shows to find the _spark_. The thing that’ll light the fire for next year. _Look_ at this. Isn’t it sweet? Some little engineers ate their hearts out. This is what it means to _design_ something,” he said, beaming, absolutely _beaming_ at the car. 

“ _Look_ at it, isn’t it perfect? 1.5 liters, we get twice as much these days; my Audi hits 1,000 horsepower. One-thousand, three zeroes—and it’s cleaner, too, better lines, better _aesthetic_. But this—this is ten years ago. Seven years ago,” Tony added, flapping a hand impatiently, his other buried in Steve’s shirt, holding him in place, preventing him from moving on. As if he would rather be anywhere else, Steve thought, deeply amused.

“This is _art_ ,” Tony enunciated, as more people moved past them.

“Iron Man?” a young voice said, and Steve looked over as Tony blinked, floored, and looked down at a young boy, no more than seven, gripping a woman’s hand and saying more confidently, “Iron Man!”

“Hey, sport,” Tony said, his tone the picture of gentle invitation as he put himself at eye level with the kid. “What’s your name?”

“Dylan,” the kid said.

“Hi, Dylan,” Tony replied.

“You’re—you’re Iron Man!” Dylan repeated. Then, pointing at the car, he added, “Is that yours?”

Smiling, jaunty and rueful at once, Tony said, “No, mine is parked at home. It flies.”

“Oh. Mine doesn’t,” Dylan said. “This is my Mom,” he added.

“Hi, Mom,” Tony added, smiling up at her. “Are you here to ride _Test Track?_ ” he asked Dylan.

“Uh huh!” Dylan said. “Are you gonna ride in our car?”

Steve could feel the momentary double-take, and then: “What about your Mom?”

“Oh, it’s okay!” Dylan said. “Right, Mom?” he added, looking up at her imploringly. “There’s lots of room!”

“I think it should be fine,” Mom said. “If you don’t mind,” she added, the picture of calm, but a bit of a smile on her face.

“No, no trouble,” Tony said, straightening and looking at Steve. “Sorry, champ, you’re gonna have to sit on the roof.”

Dylan giggled. Tony grinned. Dylan added, “Hey, Mr. Iron Man?”

“Yes, Mr. Dylan?” Tony asked, turning and, on a whim, holding out a hand. Dylan broke free of Mom and took it, squirming like a puppy in sheer joy next to him.

“Can you really fly?”

“ _Super_ high,” Tony confirmed, walking ahead at a very sedate pace in the well-lit queue. “You ever been in an airplane?”

“Uh huh!”

“Higher.”

“ _Whoa_.”

Steve stayed with Mom, observing, “You’re very trusting, ma’am.”

“Please, Captain America,” she said. “Call me Susan. And if I can’t trust my boy with the Avengers, well, there’s no hope for this world.”

“Awful sweet of you, ma’am,” Steve said, reflexively offering the honorific before smiling ruefully. “He’s good. With kids,” he added, a touch unnecessarily, as Tony picked Dylan up, and helped him touch the top of the doorway.

“ _That_ high?” Dylan asked.

“Higher,” Tony affirmed, setting him back down and pointing out a [very stout hybrid car](https://www.gmheritagecenter.com/images/featured/Autonomous_Vehicles/EN-V1.jpg) on the other side of the way. “See the car?”

“Uh huh! Is it for clowns?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Tony said, with such exuberance that Dylan giggled. “You would make a great engineer, Dylan.”

“I like cars!” Dylan said.

“I _love_ cars,” Tony said, hoisting him up again so he could see the Clown Car one last time. “Say so long, thanks for all the fish!”

“Bye-bye!” Dylan chirped. When Tony set him down, he added, “You’re really strong!”

“No, you’re letting me boost you up. You could take me down. Here, I’ll show you.” He had Dylan grasp his hand and, moving into a larger space with quite a few more people but _just_ enough room for such tomfoolery, performed a perfect roll that imitated Dylan flipping him onto his back. “See! Whoa!”

“Ma!” Dylan cried out. “Ma! I did it!”

“Strong tyke,” Tony said, getting up and ruffling Dylan’s hair, adding to Steve and Mom, “Keep an eye on this one, he’ll grow up to be a superhero.”

“Oh, he already is,” Mom said, her smile very real.

Steve smiled, too, even though he wanted to sigh and say, _Tony, you’re gonna hurt yourself_. Even he didn’t like flipping onto hard floors like that, but Tony seemed utterly nonplussed as Dylan took his hand again and walked him towards the queue, explaining, “This way, this way.” 

The cast members clearly recognized them in the well-lit area, which was probably why they were spared a _Sir, can you please practice karate outside the parks?_ The cast simply smiled indulgently as they directed them towards the queue line, seemingly satisfied that the wilder antics were over.

There were other eyes on them, too, Steve noticed, but with the little family attached to their hip, they were utterly unaccosted. _We’re accounted for_ , Steve thought, amused, as he gestured for Mom to step after Tony and Dylan, bringing up the rear on a lineup of dots on the floor. Looking up at the screens, Steve heard Dylan chattering excitedly, “It goes _really, really_ fast!”

“ _How_ fast?” Tony asked, feigning wariness.

“ _Really_ fast,” Dylan repeated.

“Hear that?” Tony asked them, lifting his arm as Dylan clung to it, lofting him off the floor with only a huff of effort. “ _Super_ fast.”

“Me oh my,” Steve deadpanned, as Dylan giggled and chased after Tony through the automatic doors leading into a control room full of computers.

“Okay, pilot, I have to help my guy design his Hot Wheels; keep an eye on your Mom for me for a second,” Tony said, performing a brief but tactical swap as he sidled up beside Steve, well aware that Steve was staring at the computer in something of a mild panic. _Is this a test?_

With utmost confidence, Tony scanned in a card, and the screen lit up, revealing three basic car designs. “Oh, it _is_ Build-a-Bear,” Tony said, sounding delighted. Steve was glad one of them was in their element: he felt deeply unprepared, like he had not studied up for a test. “Hey, hot-rod red or night-black?” Tony asked, tinkering away at seemingly everything at once, bringing a car to life.

“Uh,” Steve said, and Tony replied:

“You’re right.” He dyed the car red and beamed, moving onto the engine and giving it the highest charge, adding, “There is no way in _heck_ this means what I think it means, but a man _can_ dream.” He tinkered energetically at the keys, a man solving a problem, and the points counter ticked up, up, up in each level. “Ooh, it’s a _game_ ,” he added. “How we doing, Dylan?” he added.

“Great!” Dylan chirped. “Fast!”

“Mine too,” Tony said shamelessly, and Steve could agree that the car was definitely _fast_ , and if they were driving _that_ , they were in trouble.

Hubris was not a thing to shun in the motor vehicle department. As the clock ticked down, Tony stepped back and said, “Well, that looks lean, mean, fighting machine.” Then, stepping over, he added, “Oh, I like it.”

“It’s really fast,” Dylan said, showing off his all black car.

“See, I almost went with black,” Tony acknowledged, then shooed Steve along after the rest of the riders towards the doors as they opened, leaving behind their vehicle.

Bewildered but game, Steve followed the herd up a ramp, ending up once again at the rear as Dylan darted past him to grab Tony’s hand and insist, “I wanna sit next to Iron Man!”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, champ,” Tony said. “I need a good driver behind the wheel.”

The loading dock was by far the most active area, and things were appropriately fast-moving. In no time, their ride vehicle was rolling to a halt in front of them. “Ma!” Dylan exclaimed. “Front row! Front row!”

“Wonderful, dear,” Mom— _Susan_ —said. There were only two rows, so it felt unnecessary to say, _Back row_ , as Steve clambered in, followed by Susan and a single-rider he didn’t know to fill out the set. In front of him, Tony sat on the far left, while Dylan sat in the middle, another single-rider on the far right. “He loves this one,” she told Steve.

“Hm?” Steve said, looking around, taking in the loading dock itself.

“You might want to fasten that,” she added, buckling in, and, ashamed that he had not even reached for the seatbelt— _didn’t have ‘em back-when, Tony, some things_ are _new_ —Steve hastened to comply, loathe to set a poor example. “Have you ever ridden this one?” she added kindly as he struggled to clip in, aware that Dylan, a literal child, and Tony, who had also never ridden the ride before, were ready to go.

“First time,” Steve admitted, buckling up. “Heard it’s a good time.”

“Super fast!” Dylan squealed in uncontainable delight.

“Don’t lose our bag, dear,” Tony reminded him, leaning around to look at him, a gleam in his eye. Steve nodded, making certain it was stowed in front of him. “How’s back row?”

“Nice, actually,” Steve said. “Can keep on all the troublemakers in the front row.”

“Aye-aye, Cap,” the gentleman on the far right said unexpectedly, making Dylan giggle.

“Cap! Cap!” he chanted, as their car surged ahead.

They didn’t go far before encountering another cast member, who asked them to pull up on their seat belt, further affirming the imminently thrilling nature of their experience. _We’re in for it_ , Steve thought, reaching forward to squeeze Tony’s shoulder.

Tony patted his hand and Steve released him, leaning back and looking ahead at the tunnel ringed in red light, the only way forward. “It’s very fun,” Mom— _Susan_ —told him, patting him on the knee. “Nothing you can’t handle.”

That was both assuring and somewhat concerning, Steve thought, as they approached the ominously-lit tunnel. It was very strange _not_ to be by Tony’s side, and yet—there was something appropriately discombobulated about it as a clean voice announced near his ear, “ _Welcome to the SIM track_.”

“Oh, this is gonna be fun,” Tony said in front of him, as their car _surged_ up a hill at an unexpectedly good clip. “Yeah, buddy!”

“Yeah, buddy!” Dylan echoed cheerfully. “Let’s go, let’s go!”

Everything was incredibly dark and streaked in blue lights, hard for him to get an initial read on beyond highway signs and the clean voice narrating, “ _We’ll begin with a capability test to see how your vehicle designs perform under challenging weather and surface conditions_.”

 _Oh,_ Steve thought, as their car entered a hallway ringed in futuristic snowy columns. _This really is a highway to hell_.

“Always wanted to be a crash-test dummy!” Tony declared gleefully.

“Whoo-hoo!” Dylan agreed.

Susan patted Steve’s knee again, and Steve realized he was gripping the side of the car rather tightly in anticipatory dread. Forcing himself to loosen up his grip, he rested his hand over Susan’s instead. With the ease only a mother could have, she turned her hand over, intertwined them, and held onto his hand firmly as they rounded the corner, approaching a truly futuristic landscape full of jagged blue hills and valleys, interrupted by another clean, almost robotic voice saying: “ _SIM car data acquired_.”

Then their little ride _surged_ forward, tearing a gleeful cry from Dylan and Tony’s throats, as they launched from the bay at, again, astonishing speed, no build-up, no warning of grinding gears or looming hills, just three-two-one _go_. 

Steve squeezed Susan’s hand very gently, and she did not let go, and he felt calm wash over him, aware that nothing bad would happen to a mother and child on board a ride at Disney World. Tony was venturing in as blind as he was, but he knew a mother’s love was the most protective force on Earth: there was no possible risk to them whatsoever on the coaster.

“Eeee!” squealed Dylan as they jerked aside, surging off-road.

“Heck, yes!” Tony enthused, punctuating each word like he wanted to say more enthusiastic and less family-friendly statements in greater number but was containing himself. “Go, buddy, go!”

“Go, buddy, go!” parroted Dylan. “Go, buddy, go!”

“I like this one, Steve!” Tony said, to heck with even the illusion of plausible deniability.

Steve huffed in amusement but said nothing, holding onto Susan’s hand more for companionship than comfort as they passed under a more well-lit archway. Things calmed down as they ambled through a connected series of tunnels that evaluated their test vehicles.

Glad he had let Tony take charge—he would not have passed muster and likely would have ruined the experience for everyone then-and-there with his ignorance in mechanical marvels—Steve actually felt his heart pounding in excitement as they picked up speed again, wondering what sort of test they’d have to pass next.

As they loped up a curving hill, galloping towards their destination, he heard Susan say, “Now, get ready.”

 _For what?_ he didn’t have time to ask, consciously loosening his hold and stance so he wouldn’t squeeze her hand as they surged around a corner, straight into headlights and blaring truck horn, yanking out of the way at the very last moment.

 _Holy hell._ Heart pounding, Steve freed his hand to squeeze Tony’s shoulder, half-self-assuring, half-cajoling, _We’re okay_. He could feel the tremor, the shiver of barely-restrained panic, soundless in its expression, as they slowly rounded a bend and saw declarations of success, that they had passed the _crash avoidance_ test. _We’re okay_ , he insisted, leaving his hand where it was as they approached a tunnel with purple arches and a sign reading, _Power_.

“Here it comes!” Dylan said in uncontainable excitement. “Here it comes!”

Afraid of a second truck blaring out from the darkness, Steve didn’t let go until their car surged towards the doors that _opened_ , splitting to reveal blue skies and a familiar, happy world beyond: EPCOT.

And the _racetrack_.

Dylan squealed; the other half of the car shouted joyfully as they careened forward. Their little ride tore down the track, _thirty feet above the ground_ , picking up still more speed as it neared the bend. As they looped around the corner, the wind-in-his-hair feeling kicked up, conglomerating into the purest sort of driving experience. It was the way every fast car yearned to fly, fearlessly and for the simple pleasure of it. Being out in the open, clear, blue air was healing and everything he needed just then. 

Everything Tony needed, too, letting out a single whoop of laughter, overwhelmed, grateful. Their car flew under a sign that displayed, _65.0_ , and Steve thought, _It feels faster up here_. 

The moment didn’t last forever: all too soon, their car began to slow down, rolling to a gentle trundling pace. “Wow!” Dylan chanted. “Again! Again!” He told Tony, “We went so fast!”

“ _Super_ fast,” Tony agreed.

Disembarking was both a joyous and sorrowful affair—a near-brush with death, an unexpectedly spectacular finish. Bouncing at Tony’s side, Dylan clutched his hand and exclaimed, “We went so fast! We went super fast!”

“All right, Dylan,” Susan said, while Dylan hugged Tony’s legs and said:

“Bye, Iron Man!”

“Thank you,” Susan added, shaking Steve’s hand.

“Thank you,” Steve parroted, maybe a touch foolishly, but he was touched, truly, and Dylan was back to babbling excitedly to Tony, who had knelt on one knee to be level with him.

“And, and, we’re gonna ride it again, okay?” Dylan said. “It’s more fun the second time!”

“I’m sure it is, scamp,” Tony said, pulling out four of their five magic tickets. “Here. You can use these on any ride to skip the long line, like we did. You and your Mom should keep having fun for me, okay? Each one of these is good for both of you, so you can use these on four rides.”

“Oh, Mr. Stark,” Susan said. “That’s very kind of you.”

“Think nothing of it,” Tony said seriously, holding them out to Dylan. “Deal?”

Taking the tickets, Dylan flung his arms around Tony’s neck, who looked genuinely baffled for a moment. “Don’t go, Iron Man,” he said, holding on tightly.

Tony sighed, bringing up a hand to rub his back and saying, “Hey, look at me. Look at me,” he insisted, pulling Dylan back to meet his eye, “I’m not going anywhere. Iron Man is still around when you need him, right?”

Dylan nodded, looking teary-eyed even as he clutched the tickets in his fist, not wanting to drop the present. “And he always will be,” Tony insisted, ruffling his hair again and straightening. “You’re a superhero, too. Don’t forget that.”

“I am?”

“Uh huh.”

Looking at the tickets in his hand and back at Tony, Dylan extended them hopefully. Steve’s heart hurt as Tony shook his head, saying, “No, you gotta have fun for me, remember? Stuff I gotta take care of, elsewhere.”

“Okay,” Dylan said, looking at his Mom and taking her hand at last. “Thank you, Iron Man!”

“You’re very welcome, Dylan.” Offering an almost unconscious two-finger civilian salute, Tony added, “Be good out there.”

“Okay!” Dylan chirped, more cheerfully. “Ma, it’s Iron Man!” he added, tugging on her hand and pointing.

“Yes, dear,” agreed Susan, smiling at him, looking like she would offer a hand if she had it to shake. “Thank you very much.”

“Pleasure’s all mine,” Tony said, and he sounded like he meant it.

As they watched the young family bounce off, Steve adjusted the backpack on Tony’s shoulder instead and mused, “Still saved one, huh?”

“I’m not an _idiot_ ; we might need it,” Tony sighed, very fondly, as he tugged on Steve’s arm. “C’mon. These old bones need a cool down, and I know _just_ the ride.”

* * *

The ride was called _Journey into Imagination with Figment_.

“Didn’t think you’d be getting out of this one, did you?” Tony asked, as they scanned in their FastPasses for the queue. Steve was certain it was actually longer than the standby line.

“I,” Steve began, then shrugged, because all he hoped he’d be getting out of was a delay on lunch. His stomach rumbled audibly. “I’m game,” he said simply.

“That’s the spirit,” Tony said, tugging him along. “I’m slightly terrified to see if this ride is the same fever-dream that I remember.”

“Fever-dream, huh?” Steve said, as they stood in an empty loading area, the cast member greeting cheerfully:

“Welcome aboard, Avengers.”

“Hi, Alex,” Tony said, reading off her name tag and saying, “I’ve heard this ride is life-changing.”

“You’ve heard correctly,” Alex said, amused. “Having a good day?”

“Starving, actually, but we’re making it through,” Tony said, clambering into an otherwise empty ride vehicle and patting the space next to him. “C’mon, not all day.”

Steve mused, “There’s a catch. Isn’t there?”

“Well,” Alex began, then smiled mysteriously. “Figment is unique,” she said at last. “I think it’s great that you’ll experience it.”

“See,” Tony said, patting the seat again. “Hurry up, can’t you see the line?”

Turning back to see if he was, in fact, holding people up, Steve huffed as he embarked, adding, “Yeah, really causing chaos in the streets.”

“Enjoy your ride, Avengers,” Alex waved.

“Thank you, Alex,” Tony replied, waving back.

Certain that the rug was about to be pulled out from under him, Steve looked over as Tony pulled out his phone. It shone brilliant light in the semi-darkness. “There’s literally no one else here,” Tony pointed out at his indubitably chastising look. “Hey, look, twenty-five-minute standby, that’s not bad,” he added, pointing out _Soarin’_ on his app. Pocketing his phone, he yawned, then flopped against Steve, declaring, “Okay, wake me up when it’s over.”

“You can’t be serious,” Steve said. Tony made a point of snoring loudly against his shoulder. “Tony,” he grumbled, as they pulled up to a set of screens. “C’mon, you gotta explain the ride.”

“I don’t _gotta_ do anything,” Tony grumbled, but he said good-naturedly, “You’re a quick study; this ride is made for children.”

This ride was made for _children_ , Steve thought, bewildered at how long it took him to grasp the simple concept as a scientist appeared on screen, dressed in a white lab coat, hounded by a purple-scaled, orange-winged, yellow-bellied Tony-what- _is-_ that?

“Use your imagination,” Tony instructed.

It was a dragon, Steve realized, but one conceived by a child’s imagination. Steve stared at the screen, barely gathering the story—they were there to tour some sort of facility—because his attention was fixed fully on, _Tony, what is that?_

“It’s a Figment,” Tony said, even less helpfully than before.

“Figment, I don’t want you out of my sight!” the scientist bawled.

“Out of sight? Okay!” Figment bawled back, vanishing in a cartoonish puff of smoke. “C’mon, everybody! Let’s go!”

“This,” Steve said seriously, as their ride vehicles began to move sideways out of the room, “is about to be something special, isn’t it?”

Next to him, Tony just repeated, “Use your imagination.”

They moved into the “sound lab,” and lo, Figment bawled from the Great Beyond, out-of-sight but somewhere near. Before Steve could wonder if the entire ride would proceed with the purple dragon floating from the ether, it reappeared in the flesh on a podium in front of them, declaring, “It’s not about listening with your ears, it’s about listening with your— _imagination!_ ” The line caught him so off-guard Steve actually laughed.

“Now I’ve _completely_ lost my train of thought!” the out-of-sight scientist bawled.

“No, you haven’t—it’s over here!” Figment shrieked, its words succeeded by the audible chugging and belling of a train. “Whoo-whoo!!”

Overcome with the simple absurdity of the skit, Steve found himself laughing in earnest, having an absolute, genuine _ball_ as they toured the Imagination Institute. Once again, the purple dragon harassed them and their beleaguered host incessantly, cropping up in the most unexpected and borderline grotesque ways, including a bouncing Figment _head_ sketching out the lyrics to a song that Steve already knew was dangerously close to infectious.

Just before they reached the “smell lab”—which, Steve thought, was either a thing to look forward to or deeply ominous—he looked up and saw a massive butterfly in a cage. It rocked like a canary on a swing, yet as their ride vehicle drifted past, it vanished. “Tony,” Steve began, surprised, but it was so surreal he was half-convinced only he had seen it, shaking his head in bewilderment and focusing on the present.

He should have known what was coming from the poisonously-colored green tanks, but he held out hope as the scientist assured them that _pleasant_ smells would bring up _pleasant_ memories. Then, mid-spiel, their host was usurped by the little dragon once again, who reappeared on screen and—in perhaps the most warped of ways yet—transformed into a dragon-headed skunk.

Tony buried his face against Steve’s shoulder. Steve took no such precautions and thus caught a hearty _whiff_ of a foul odor as canisters released and filled the room. Although far from the worst thing he had ever smelled, it was no rose in the garden, and moving on was a relief. 

The “touch and taste labs” boded even more worryingly than anything preceding them, but, fortuitously, the abomination reappeared on a podium to say that it would, instead, conduct them on a tour through _its_ home. When the mournful scientist declared that the whole venture had been turned upside-down, Figment shrieked, “Upside-down? That’s a _great_ idea!”

Steve could scarcely _believe_ the amount of stops the ride pulled out for gag humor, but it did not let up as their vehicle spun around and proceeded through Figment’s one-of-a-kind open house, featuring an entire room full of upside-down artifacts.

Amazed, Steve told Tony, “This is something else, isn’t it?”

Tony said, “Must be your _imagination_.”

Steve supposed that it would not have been Figment if it did not go out with a bang, thankfully pre-warned in the same comically anticipatory way: “Imagination can be a BLAST!” Steve still jumped, but there was no panic, only an immediate sense of being conned as they proceeded into a showroom _full_ of Figments, all singing at the top of their little lungs the same song.

_A dream! Can be! A dream come true!_

_With just one spark! From me to you!_

* * *

“I really liked that.”

Tony drawled, “I couldn’t tell.”

“Reminds me of a—you know, vaudeville,” Steve said cheerfully. “Low-brow. You gotta _laugh_ , Tony,” he insisted.

Tony said, “It _is_ the fever-dream of my dreams” and stuffed down a smile when Steve hooked an arm around his shoulders and drew him in for a brief hug.

“That was wonderful,” Steve said, surprising himself at his own sincerity.

“Yeah?” Tony said, amused. “Good.” Pulling Blue out of his backpack, he replaced her on his shoulder and added, “Poor Banshee—probably suffocating in there all this time.” Looking at Steve thoughtfully, he added, “Still haven’t gotten _you_ a gift.”

“I don’t need one, Tony,” Steve said, “I have you.”

Hooking an arm through his, Tony said seriously, “When you stay stuff like that, it makes me mushy.”

“Good,” Steve said, kissing his temple.

“You really did enjoy that,” Tony said, smiling. “Wow.”

* * *

“Welcome back, Avengers!” Alex said cheerfully. “Did you enjoy your first trip?”

“ _Thoroughly_ ,” Tony said, piling into the back row of the empty car. “How fast can this bad boy go?” he asked.

“Three-and-a-half miles per hour,” Alex replied, making Tony laugh.

“Hear that? Hold onto your hats,” Tony instructed Steve, setting the blue bag beside himself and shooing Steve into the front row. “No, hey, I want this to _myself_. I need leg room,” he added, curving an arm around the side of the red car and tucking his feet up on the seat beside himself. “Paint me like one of your _French ladies_ , heard of it?” Looking over at Alex, he asked, “Will I get decapitated if I sit like this?”

“Nope,” Alex said cheerfully, waving as their ride vehicle swayed ahead. “Have fun!”

“All I need is a martini and a bite to eat and I’m set for the day,” Tony said, lifting the blue bag onto the seat next to Steve. “Can you bring food on this ride? Know what—I don’t wanna mix it with the smell lab,” he added, grimacing.

Steve laughed at that, in a good mood before they even settled into place in front of the screen before the harried-looking scientist, who identified himself as Dr. Nigel Channing. “Take notes,” Tony added, tapping him on the back of the head. “I expect a full dissertation on what kind of dragon Figment is by the end of this.”

“You can’t be serious,” Steve drawled, as they paused.

“Dead serious,” Tony said. “If you say _of your imagination_ , I’m docking points.”

“But Tony, he _is_ a—” Steve began, before turning back to the screen as Dr. Channing welcomed them back to the Imagination Institute. Had Steve been on a true fact-finding mission, he would have been doomed from the start: with a child’s attentiveness to a narrative, the drama switched from the scientist’s mundane presentation to his comical sidekick, who screeched into view and screamed:

“Oh! Oh! Can I go TO?”

“This is an accurate life model decoy of owning a two-year-old,” Tony informed him.

Steve laughed. “Tony, I don’t think parents consider it _ownership_.”

“I would _hope_ they do,” Tony replied. “Would you rather they consider it a temporary lease?”

On-screen, Figment plastered itself against the length of the viewing window, giving them an up-close view of the little hellion before it darted back to Dr. Channing, who had no time to react as the dragon stuffed a pair of outsized eyeglasses over his face. 

“Definitely a two-year-old,” Steve concurred as Figment screamed at the top of its little lungs and shattered the glass panes. Tony ruffled Steve’s hair as Figment tormented Dr. Channing with its own claws; Steve batted Tony's hand away. “Hey, next time, I’ll sit behind _you_ , mister.”

“Adorable you think I’d ever let you,” Tony said, ruffling his hair more enthusiastically to spite him as Steve returned his attention to the screen.

“ _Tony_ ,” Steve grumbled, sinking in his seat to avoid him as they slid around the corner.

The tour was certainly livelier the second time around, between Figment’s interruptions and Tony’s interjections, complete with a brilliant flash photograph of Figment because, “Honestly, when else will I get an opportunity like this?” It was considerate of him to not have done so with other passengers around, Steve supposed, even if it took his eyes time to a few seconds to readjust afterward.

Tony seemed as hell-bent as Figment on breaking the rules. Steve knew that, had it not been a surefire way to stop the ride, Tony would have clambered over the seat to sit next to him. Tony settled for leaning against the dividing slab and commenting, “Oh boy,” as they approached the smell lab. “Here it comes.” Then, sucking in a deep breath, he added in a strained voice, “Is it skunk?”

“No,” Steve said, enduring a second dousing of the chemical awfulness to report, “more like . . . burnt coffee.”

“Really?” Tony asked, exhaling and sucking a short whiff, then: “Oh, wow, that’s awful.”

“What d’you suppose are behind those doors?” Steve asked, nodding at the door labeled “to the touch and taste labs.”

Solemnly, Tony said, “Use your _imagination_.”

“Tony,” Steve grumbled at the non-answer. “Cannibalism?” he tried.

Tony sighed, leaning over the seat to curl an arm around his collar and say, “Yes.”

“Dark,” Steve said. Then: “What does that have to do with touch?”

Tony said, “No, I’m not riding this again—figure it out now or make peace.”

“This is a ride,” Steve said, parsing it out, “for children.” Taking in the closed doors more than the purple dragon on its podium, it dawned on him: “Oh. Really?”

“I didn’t say it,” Tony drawled.

Blinking at the closed doors, Steve said, “Huh.” Then: “Guess that really is what they mean by _I’ll tell you when you’re older_.”

Huffing, Tony said, “I’m glad your imagination is fully functional.” As they glided through Figment’s whacky home once again, Tony stayed where he was, hugging Steve. He jumped when they were blasted a second time by Figment at the helm of a cannon, announcing, “Gonna have this song in my head all day,” in the final showroom.

“Grows on you, doesn’t it?” Steve said.

* * *

“Hah!” Tony declared, twisting around the front seat to show Steve their _Soarin’_ FastPass at 5:30 PM. “I’m a god!” How he had magicked the system was beyond Steve, who had simply followed him through the two queues—the nonexistent standby, and the equally nonexistent FastPass on their third voyage. Clearly, he’d won the tiered game.

“Tony,” Steve chided. “Put your phone away, kids’ll see it.”

“Kids!” Tony Stark bellowed, making a show of twisting around to search for invisible audience members in other cars farther down the track. “Show yourselves!”

Sighing, Steve said, “All right, fair enough.” Then, nodding at the [purple dragon](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/54/61/59/54615999871eb9ed3ff0ae54229bd6ca.jpg) seated beside him, he added, “You know, I don’t see how this’ll educate a stuffed bear better, but—”

“Oh, that’s yours now, you signed a blood pact,” Tony said.

Steve stared at him. With the flash on, Tony snapped a picture of the him and the little dragon, beaming, “ _That’s_ one for the album. This ride is an abomination of nature.”

Blinking twice to clear the spots, Steve said, “I am not keeping this bear.”

“First off, it’s not a bear, it’s a dragon,” Tony said, pointing at the blue dragon on his own shoulder meaningfully. “Second, yes, you are. She told you to keep it.”

“I’m keeping an eye on it,” Steve corrected. _Babysitting_ was not a term that applied to stuffed animals, yet _keeping an eye on it_ seemed somehow more ominous, like the creature really would get up and flit off at any moment. For good measure, he put a big paw of a hand over its back, firmly securing it to the red seat. “Can’t hurt a nice lady’s feelings, Tony.”

“Alex _gave_ it to you,” Tony said, sounding deeply amused, nearly turned around in the front row as he looked at Steve and the little purple dragon seated next to him. “It’s yours now. No take-backs. Besides,” he pointed out, something in Steve’s expression giving away, _Now, I can’t steal a thing from a dame_ , “do you even _know_ how many [new Figments](https://www.magicalearscollectibles.com/assets/images/file_a964c163860113.jpg) they have back there?”

That was a fair assessment, but still: “I don’t _need_ this, Tony.”

“Clearly, your imagination does,” Tony said, sounding deeply amused at the thought. “It’s a sign,” he added, taking another flash picture for good measure.

“Tony,” Steve said, aggrieved, reaching up to cover his eyes, still spotty from the flash. “I am giving it back.”

“No, we are not going back, we’re getting lunch,” Tony said sweetly. “Don’t listen to the bad man,” Tony added, swiping Figment from him and plopping the dragon down on the bench beside him. “We love all abominations in this family.”

Steve’s fast reflexes spared a brisk end for poor plush Figment as Tony chucked the bear— _dragon_ —back at him, just low enough that it wouldn’t careen out of the ride vehicle. “Now, you take care of that, I don’t wanna hear any complaints,” Tony instructed, reaching up to cup Blue’s head briefly, sprawling across his seat as the real Figment gleefully hijacked the rest of their tour through the Imagination Institute.

When it came time to say goodbye to the many purple Figments and their terrifically terrible tour, Steve tried to pawn off the purple dragon, insisting, “It’s not _mine_.” Tony just swiped it from him, stuffed it down the front of Steve’s shirt, and said:

“There: hands-free.”

Grumbling, Steve retrieved the dragon. “We are not keeping this,” he insisted.

“You’re gonna make a great dad someday,” Tony beamed, sounding more amused than exasperated as Steve actually tripped a step, saying:

“To no _dragons_.”

* * *

Actually, the improvised shirt-hold wasn’t a bad way to carry the little monster, given that the alternative was to hold it in hand. Steve ended up tucking Figment back in his shirt collar, turning to look at Tony, who was walking alongside him with his eyes fixed on a map, explaining, “Hey, I think I found a shortcut.”

About to point out that that seemed improbable at Disney World, Steve was surprised that there was, in fact, a shortcut.

It had the improbably cutesy name _Friendship Boat_. 

Sitting on the long bench at the stern of the boat beside Tony, Steve asked, “Where do you think it goes?”

Tony folded up the map and declared, “It’s a surprise,” before taking a picture of Steve with his phone, adding serenely, “All of these are keepers.”

Sighing, Steve slung an arm around him, pulling him close despite the humidity, and turned to look at the—“Lagoon?” he tried.

“Lagoon,” Tony agreed, snuggling under his arm.

Their boat kicked up a nice breeze as they pulled out of the dock. Given the middle-of-the-day heat, it was very welcome. “Now this,” Steve said, “is the way to get around.”

“Walking’s for squares,” Tony agreed, nodding at the sky and adding, “Looks ominous.”

It certainly did—dark clouds were gathering over the pavilions in the distance. “Oughtta take cover,” Steve said, more amused than worried. They’d been warned it stormed every day in the Florida summer, and so far, they’d avoided the midday spectacular.

“Wanna stop in France for ice cream?” Tony asked.

Steve’s stomach growled audibly. “You have to ask?”

* * *

They started off on a strong foot: Steve with a hearty scoop of vanilla, Tony with two scoops of coffee and strawberry.

“Honestly, I’m a genius, and this could be marketable,” Tony said, sitting across from Steve at the tiny steel table and taking a bite into his cone. Tony’s patience lasted a minute more before he stood up and declared, “Okay, I’m gonna try chocolate and hazelnut.”

Steve wordlessly accepted Tony’s unfinished cone, making quick work of it and before returning to his original decadence. He would have been happy to spend his whole life eating vanilla ice cream— _had_ , in fact, up until the twenty-first century—but he could appreciate the bold, bright flavors that were out there and Tony’s enthusiasm for them. No flavor intimidated Tony.

Tony returned with a chocolate-and-hazelnut ice cream. “This is really good,” he announced, holding out the ice cream cone for Steve to try. Steve obligingly took a bite, and it had a nice sweetness to it. “Two-for-two,” Tony added. When Steve bit through the last of his own cone, Tony tapped his wrist band and added, “Try to snag mango and mint chocolate with something.”

Standing in the little shop, Steve had time to consider his options, but in the end, he went with the board’s directions: mango and pomegranate were listed side-by-side, and vanilla was a palate cleanser if his intuition proved horrible, so he paired the mint chocolate with it. Scanning in his Magic Band, he wondered if he hadn’t rediscovered a forbidden combination of ice cream flavors at Tony’s assessment:

“ _Bold_ choice,” Tony said, sounding more impressed than alarmed. “Pomegranate?” he asked, taking the cone and licking a stripe fearlessly. “Credit where credit is due,” he added, trading Steve his mixed chocolate cone. “This ain’t bad.”

“You don’t have to eat it,” Steve said. “I just—”

“No, I like seeing what your mind comes up with,” Tony said, holding up a hand. “It’s got a nice—mix,” Tony explained. “Sour. Sweet. You’re onto something, Rogers,” he said, sounding pleased, like he hadn’t expected a treat out of it. “Soon, I will have nothing more to teach you.”

“Well,” Steve said, taking a bite from the melting mint cone, “that’s just short-sighted of you.”

Huffing a laugh, Tony said, “All right, we gotta get. . . .” Holding out the colorful mango-and-pomegranate cone to Steve, he accepted the vanilla-and-mint cone, gave it one lick, and said, “Safe bet. To be fair, I can’t judge,” he added, nodding at the chocolate cone. 

Steve finished it in three bites. Thankfully, Tony didn’t mind his ice-cream-biting habit—much, and it certainly sped up the process. He devoured the vanilla-mint cone in similarly brisk fashion, eyeing the mango-pomegranate cone skeptically. “It’s good,” Tony assured, taking it back to chase dripping ice cream, adding, “Pistachio, chocolate chip, melon. What’m I missing?”

Somewhat distracted, Steve didn’t respond until Tony kicked him lightly under the table. “Caramel, cherry, lemon, mixed berries,” he rattled off, tucking away the photographic plate in his memory and looking away from Tony’s wry smirk. “Maybe triple up?” he suggested.

“Thought you’d never ask,” Tony teased, worrying the cone between his teeth thoughtfully. “Mm.” He rattled off, “Let’s do lemon, berries, melon and cherry, chocolate chip, and pistachio.” Then: “Double up on that choco-hazelnut with caramel. I could go for that twice.”

Standing in line next to him in the tiny shop, Steve asked, “Have you ever _not_ wanted to try every flavor on the menu?”

Tony said, “We’re all going to die someday. I’m not here to waste time.”

It was a bit unorthodox, but Jack, their server, simply said, “Oh, sure, we can do that,” as he prepared the cones. “Absolutely,” he assured, piling on the third massive scoop with the artfulness only a seasoned ice cream connoisseur could possess.

“How long you been working here, Jack?” Tony asked, letting Steve take the first cone.

“Seven years, this October,” Jack said, handing them the second cone. “Started with the DCP—Disney College Program. Never left,” he added, grinning. “What’s not to like?”

“In another life, I’d own a dessert shop,” Tony said, accepting the third cone and wagging a hundred-dollar bill over the counter. “Don’t go hungry, now.”

“Oh, wow,” Jack said, stripping off a glove to accept the bill. “Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t change a thing. You’re doing great, kid.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jack repeated, humbled. If he knew who he was speaking to, he did a good job hiding it. “Have a magical day.”

“You, too, Jack,” Tony said, clearly enjoying himself as they stepped out of the refrigerated shop back into the steamy Floridian weather.

“That boy had no idea who I was,” Tony said. 

They stood outside near a fountain, working over the second chocolate cone while Steve alternated between the bright berry cone and the much tamer pistachio mix. “That a problem?” Steve asked.

“No,” Tony said at once, seeming genuinely _happy_ about it. “I just—forgot. What it was like to meet a kid who didn’t know me.” Taking a ginger bite of his chocolate cone, Tony stewed over it, then said, “I didn’t know they still existed. It’s like an entire generation—” Waving a hand, he said, “Makes me sound like such a dou—jerk,” he finished, smiling ruefully at their proximity to young families. “I know I’m not on everyone’s calling card. But real anonymity—it’s special. You know?”

“You’re special,” Steve said, watching the back of Tony’s neck turn red, embarrassed. “Even if you aren’t nobody. Being nobody ain’t all it’s cracked up to be,” he added with a gentle shoulder bump. “Lotta people wanna make it. But . . . I’m glad you get to be human, again.”

Nodding, shoulders relaxing, Tony worked over his cone, then valiantly tried the berry cone, said, “I’m very sorry,” and Steve just assured:

“I’m not.”

“Can’t all be winners,” Tony said, smiling as he tried the pistachio cone. “This one’s good.”

“Yeah, kind of takes the sting off this one,” Steve said, making him laugh.

“I love you,” he said. Steve’s heart thumped hard in his chest; he wondered, truly, if it was possible to love someone so much, to sustain that kind of love for a lifetime.

“Love you, too,” was all he said, savoring Tony’s smile as Tony intertwined their hands, the black band innocuous, and squeezed, just for a moment, before letting go.

* * *

With a renewed pep in their step, they made tracks around the World Showcase. There wasn’t much to do in Morocco besides eat, and with the weather creeping in, they decided to troop past Japan, before heeling at good ol’ _America._

“Tony,” Steve said with a very long-suffering expression as Tony held up a Mickey Mouse teddy bear wearing red-white-and-blue shorts. “Vaguely defamatory,” he decided.

“Vaguely defamatory,” Tony repeated with a grin. He shelved the teddy bear— _Mouse_ —and moved one shelf over, holding up a shirt with an identically defamatory Mickey on the front.

“ _Tony_ ,” Steve pleaded, as Tony pulled down a beige-colored baseball hat with an American flag on the front, stuffed it over Steve’s head, and declared:

“There, now you look like a real Grandpa.”

“Thought you didn’t _want_ me to,” Steve grumbled, reaching up to replace the hat on the rack. No sooner had he succeed than Tony held up a far tackier red-white-and-blue cowboy hat. Letting out a deeply aggrieved sigh, Steve set his foot down: “Tony, _no_.”

“C’mon, this is your _heritage_ ,” Tony wheedled, grinning like a jackal. Setting the unbelievably cheesy hat on his own head at a jaunty angle, he scooped up a little stuffed bald eagle and a tiny American flag and said, “See, look how much I love my country.” The baby-blue backpack and Banshee on his shoulder really completed the look, Steve thought dryly.

Unimpressed, Steve said, “Yeah, you’re a real American citizen.”

“For a guy who wears a spangly outfit,” Tony began, then shook his head. “You have to try on at least _one_ thing here. And like it.”

“No, I don’t,” Steve grumbled, looking around the American gift shop and resisting the urge to fold his arms across his chest disapprovingly. “Tony, this is blasphemy; the flag is sacred.”

“Only if it’s got all the stars and stripes,” Tony reminded, flicking the cowboy hat on _Steve’s_ head with improbably brisk reflexes. Trying not to imagine how it looked with the purple dragon still tucked in his shirt collar, Steve snatched Tony’s phone out of his hands before he could take the picture, saying simply:

“ _No_.”

Tony pouted at him, but Steve just tucked Tony’s phone in his back pocket. “You get this back when we get out,” he decided.

“Fair’s fair,” Tony said, shrugging audibly. When Steve looked, he had _Steve’s_ phone. “I told Clint about your new son, by the way.” He showed Steve a picture of himself in the ungodly hat, looking deeply annoyed and in the process of stuffing Tony’s phone in his back pocket, the purple dragon still sticking out of his shirt collar. “Okay, pick something _you_ like,” Tony insisted.

Steve replaced the terrible cowboy hat on the rack. “I don’t need a hat,” he said mulishly. “Or a shirt,” he added when Tony held one up.

“This one’s for me,” Tony said, which, inarguable logic: Steve wouldn’t talk him out of a gift for _himself_. Still: he scowled as Tony held up the long-sleeved gray shirt to Steve’s chest, pressing it in to gauge the fit. “It’s shareable,” Tony explained, tucking it over his arm. It had UNITED STATES OF AMERICA printed on the back, complete with a perfectly accurate (and blasphemous, Steve did not grumble) American flag just below, in case they got lost and needed to be returned to their country of origin.

Tony replaced the eagle and flag while Steve wandered morosely around the shop. He didn’t get far before Tony called his attention to another gift: “Look, this one’s practical.” Steve already knew it would be bad, but he was still unprepared for the very strange-looking utility belt in Tony’s free hand, painted in garish red-white-and-blue. “You strike me as a fanny pack kind of guy,” Tony explained.

Beaming as Steve leveled a very flat look at him, Tony clipped the _fanny pack_ — _Tony, that’s horrible_ —around his own waist, demonstrating, “See, eminently practical—you can even put your phone in it.” He zipped Steve’s phone in it for good measure. Then he reached for a mustard yellow t-shirt with an eagle spread wide across it, FREEDOM splashed across it, and drawled, “This _screams_ you.”

Fearful that they would never escape if he did not come to a decision, Steve pondered the shop’s offerings, but there was so little of _use_ —ornaments and trinkets and curios of all kinds, nothing of practical value, and why on Earth would anyone _need_ a plate with USA printed on it, didn’t they know what country they were in? Between the gaudy t-shirts and gaudier hats, he found himself returning to Tony’s side in despair.

Tony was busy twirling a fanciful Mickey-Mouse-ear-topped pen—dyed from tip-to-tip in vivid red-white-and-blue, of course—and musing, “Look, I found the cheapest thing here.”

It was ghastly. “Tony,” Steve begged, out of options. He didn’t want to spend money on . . . on _frivolities._ “Please,” he said, not a man to beg. Tony had mercy on him, although he _did_ say:

“Fine, but you have to wear this, in the parks, at least once.” Holding up the rolled-up shirt, Tony unzipped his fanny pack and retrieved Steve’s phone, tossing it to him. “Hey, look,” he added, holding up a little wooden eagle with HOME OF THE BRAVE printed around its edge. “This scr—”

“Tony,” Steve warned, putting a hand on the purple dragon still sticking out of his shirt pointedly. “I _have_ a pet.”

“And what a _fine_ pet it is,” Tony beamed.

* * *

“Tony,” Steve pleaded.

“No,” Tony yawned, dragging him across the long carpeted hallway by a hand fisted in his shirt. “Suck my—stick, I’m not sleeping on a park bench.”

“You can’t sleep in here,” Steve said, baffled and frankly concerned, because so far, everything _American_ had been vaguely traumatizing. He’d take _I love New York_ t-shirts over defamatory Mickey Mouses any day, that was for certain.

“It’s the _American Adventure_ ,” Tony told him, which sounded only more ominous after the _adventure_ they had already experienced. “You can’t _not_ go, I’d be failing the American people if I deprived you of this.” 

The lack of a line for the _American Adventure_ only signaled more grave things to come. Steve was one poorly used American flag away from digging in his heels to actually veto his first ride, because: _C’mon, Tony, did we really come to Disney World just to go back to America?_

Apparently.

Stepping through the open double doors, he beheld the largest theater he had ever seen. Forgetting his trepidation, he stared around it as Tony tugged him towards the very back of the room, snagging a pair of astonishingly comfortable seats. It quickly became clear _why_ he’d chosen this place, Steve thought, given its generous accommodations and perfectly-tuned air conditioning. He even thought, _Well, if I tune this out, it won’t be so bad_.

That was clearly Tony’s intention, he realized, amused, as Tony set the backpack on the seat next to himself, then rested his cheek on Steve’s shoulder and slumped down. He wasn’t the only one adopting such a stance, Steve noticed, amused, scanning the sparsely-populated theater for other attendees, trying to gauge what sort of experience he was in for. There were plenty of heads fixed firmly on the massive stage, and he thought, _Heck, it_ is _Disney_.

It couldn’t be _bad_ , per se, although Figment was not what he would call _good_. It could not be _worse_ , he thought, cowboying up. Tony breathed steadily against his shoulder, apparently uninterested in partaking in the event he wanted to subject Steve to.

 _I’ll experience this for the both of us_ , Steve thought. As a parting gesture of kindness before embarking on whatever voyage he was in for, he pulled out the new shirt, snipped off the tag, and draped it over Tony like an improvised blanket. No sooner had he finished than the lights dimmed, and an aged voice spoke into the darkness:

“America did not exist. Four centuries of work, loneliness, and fear created this land. We built America, and the process made us . . . Americans.”

He expected cast members in costumes; he did not expect a real Founding Father and a living, breathing nineteenth-century writer to appear in plain view. 

Enraptured, Steve leaned forward, catching himself belatedly and leaning back in his seat so he wouldn’t perturb Tony, staring at Mr. Franklin and Mr. Twain. _How in the devil?_ he thought, as the two men sat back together, conversing about America and her people. He did his best to keep his laughter contained, but he still chuckled at the claim that Americans were proud of their humility.

It was an astonishingly vivid production, journeying not merely the turn of the century but the whole story, all the way to the beginning. He scarcely noticed the passage of time or Tony drooling on his shoulder, soaking it all in like a sponge. So many voices chimed in, yet he felt certain that they only scratched the surface of the whole story, colorful as it was, and was left with a lump in his throat as the last half of the twentieth century flashed by, nearly as briefly as the seventy years on ice had been.

 _This little land has come a way_ , he thought, removing the shirt from Tony’s front as the lights came back on. “Norway?” Tony grunted.

“America,” Steve corrected dryly. He held up the shirt as a reminder and, flicking his gaze down to the slight wet patch on his shoulder, swapped his own out with a speed only a super-soldier could conceive. The gray shirt was long-sleeved and exceptionally comfortable, and while it was a little . . . _young_ for his taste, Tony was always pushing him to dress less like a sixty-year-old man. He certainly felt younger in it, he thought, amused.

“No, I meant—” Yawning, Tony nearly tripped over the seat as he said, “Let’s go to Norway, they have a boat ride.”

“Oh,” Steve said. Then: “I liked the show.”

“Of course you did,” Tony replied airily, picking up the backpack. Steve tucked his old shirt and Figment carefully into the space while Tony slung it back over his shoulders. “Told you it would come in handy,” Tony said, ignoring the fact that _Steve_ had thought of bringing it along.

“Uh huh,” Steve agreed, ushering him out of the theater.

Despite the power nap, Tony still moved pretty slowly out of the theater, complaining good-naturedly, “Hey, Hermes, ease up.”

“Any shortcuts?” Steve prompted.

Tony consulted his map, a true sign of his fatigue, before shaking his head. “No,” he said, then: “We are exactly where we _don’t_ want to be.”

“About right,” Steve said. Outside, it was clear that rain had passed through, the pavement damp and the crowds thinned. Invitingly, he offered his back, and Tony shook his head wearily, explaining:

“Gotta keep hustlin’ or I’ll go kaput. We need to loop back around. It’s a _Frozen_ ride now,” he added, sounding vaguely surprised. “And it has a 90-minute wait time, _no_ thank you. So we can,” sighing, beleaguered, he added, “Okay, I changed my mind.”

Steve could feel his exhaustion, shaking against his back, his breath shortened like he couldn’t quite catch it, as Tony sifted through his phone, one arm draped wearily around Steve’s neck as they trekked— “Follow the road to Italy, at least it’s new scenery,” Tony instructed, pointing ahead.

They cruised past Italy despite rather tempting smells from a pizzeria, determined to make their five-thirty FastPasses. “Still got over an hour,” Steve pointed out.

“That is _just_ enough time,” Tony said, and so they blitzed past Germany without stopping, even though it, too, had familiarly appetizing smells. Really, it was a special form of torture by the time they reached China and its many aromatic appeals to have to walk by, but Steve recognized Tony’s wishes, even though—

“Hey, I hate to ask, but—can I get a picture?”

 _What, do I look like a character?_ was Steve’s first thought, even though Tony let out the world’s most muted sigh, slid off his back, and said with perfect composure:

“Actually, we’re doing autographs today.”

“Oh,” said the guy who had spoken. “Cool,” he added. “My girlfriend’s never gonna believe this,” he added, pulling out a Disney autograph book and regular pen. “She’s a huge fan of you guys.”

“Really,” Tony said, hopping down while Steve, wary but obliging, took the pen and for good measure, asked:

“What’s her name, son?”

“Ellie,” he said.

“ _Keep an eye on this one, Ellie_ ,” he wrote. “ _-Cap._ ”

His John Hancock was a quick scrawl, tight lettering distinct but largely unremarkable. Tony’s signature, on the other hand, blew his out of the water; for an artist, Steve’s was pathetically mundane next to a guy who had signed his name 100,000 times in print. _Iron Man #1,_ Tony wrote in the same bold script, flipping the book back and adding, “Couldn’t come?”

“Nah,” Ellie’s boyfriend said. “I’m just here for a few days, but I told her I’d take lots of pics. She’ll appreciate this.”

“Where you from?”

“Ohio, actually,” Ellie’s boyfriend said. “Not used to, ah,” they stepped farther off the beaten-path into a walkway nearer the lake as he added, “well, you guys are the first superheroes I’ve ever met, so I admit I’m a little behind on the . . . etiquette.”

“Take care of yourself,” Steve said, and then—

“James,” Ellie’s boyfriend filled in.

“James,” Steve finished, offering a hand for a firm shake. “Stay outta trouble.”

“Will do. Cap. Sir.” Blushing, he said, “I’m sorry to disturb you.”

Shrugging, Tony said, “Actually, you’re the first.”

No sooner had James bid his farewell than a gaggle of teens crowded around, pleading for the same: “I don’t have time for names today, so all the ladies will be Betty, and all the gents will be Ben,” Tony said, zipping through autographs so briskly six books were signed, sealed, and delivered in less time than it would have taken Steve to do just _one_. “If you ask very nicely, he might give you a hug, or an autograph,” he added, nodding at Steve.

He wasn’t much of a hugger, really, but it was a neat way around the slow process of signing books, and less attention-drawing, too, more like a group reuniting than a standout event.

“Okay, so, I should pick you up at nine?” Tony drawled, as at least four gals held onto Steve tightly, trying to squeeze the stuffing out of him. Seeing as Steve was built like a steel tank, they weren’t exactly succeeding, but at least they seemed happy, and he didn’t mind terribly, arms gingerly wrapped around the lot of them. “All right,” Tony announced, “I’ll give you five . . . four . . . three-two-one.” To their credit, as soon as he reached _one_ , they let go and stepped back, looking like they’d gotten to hold a piece of the _Moon_ , beaming and chattering excitedly, nearly talking over each other. “Where’re we from? Virginia?” Tony asked.

Steve wasn’t certain how he was psychic, except one of them wore a shirt with a college stamp on it, but they promptly clustered around Tony. Steve kept a firm hand on the blue backpack, both to tether and to guard his back, preventing the same buoyant treatment. Tony was generous enough he might allow it, even though he’d hate it—Steve didn’t mind the _can I rub your hands for luck?_ trick, whereas Tony would sooner have signed autographs all day with broken hands than started hugging strangers on the streets.

Finally free, Tony said, “Where’s the Flower and Garden Festival when you need it?” The park _was_ busy, but it seemed like they only made it fifteen steps before another small family approached them and, with scarcely a good excuse to say _no_ , they paused to greet two young children and their parents, who informed them, quite sincerely, that their little ones were very big fans of the Avengers.

“So _this_ is what it’s like to be Mickey Mouse in Disney World,” Steve mused, after the second young family and the same spiel of listening to young ones ask Tony, repeatedly, if he was Iron Man, while Steve shook Mom and Pop’s hands and finally helped pull Tony away.

Recognizing that they would _not_ make it back to the front of the park without further interruptions, they ducked into the Norway pavilion, and found:

“Wow. _Frozen_ ,” Tony said, blinking several times in quick succession.

It proved to be a miscalculation: there were lots of children in the store, and almost at once, a girl gasped and Tony sighed in resigned acceptance as she took one look at him and pranced over with her father’s hand in hers, chanting, “Iron Man, Iron Man!”

“Hello,” Tony said, his voice immediately giving his regality away, as if there was any doubt. Crouching on one knee, Tony asked, “And who do we have here?”

“I’m so sorry,” Dad began, but the little girl just squirmed happily in place before chirping:

“Mia!”

“Hi, Mia,” Tony said, “you look very beautiful in your dress.”

“My Mommy picked it out!” Mia said. “I’m Elsa! Where’s—where’s—where’s your, your suit, Iron Man?”

“It’s not too far. It doesn’t fit on rides,” Tony confided.

“Oh,” Mia said. “Have you been on _Frozen?_ We, we went on it, and we saw—look!” She scurried off, then hurried back when he didn’t follow, adding, “Come here, I—”

“No, honey,” her father said, “let’s leave Iron Man alone. I’m so sorry,” Dad repeated, looking at Steve and adding sincerely, “I’m sure you want to get back to your—”

“No, it’s okay,” Tony said, straightening and nodding at Mia, who bounded off again. 

“Look!” she squeaked, holding up a plush reindeer. “It’s Sven!”

“Which one?” Tony said, pretending to look at the rack of reindeer for the one she was holding.

Mia held up the reindeer in her hands higher. It was half as big as she was. “Sven!” she cheered. “Look!”

“Isn’t he _something_ ,” Tony said, crouching again and stroking the reindeer’s ruff. “Do you like him?”

Mia squished him to her chest, nodding repeatedly. “Uh huh!”

Holding out a hand, Tony asked, “Can I see him?”

A touch shyly, Mia held him out. “You mind, Dad?” Tony asked, looking up at him.

Dad looked a touch surprised, out of his depth. “You don’t—” he started, but Tony just smiled, straightened, and offered a hand to Mia, adding:

“Would you like to take Sven home?”

“Uh huh!” Mia chirped, taking his hand.

“It’s all right,” Steve assured, putting a comforting hand on Dad’s shoulder as he started again:

“Oh, that’s really very kind of you—”

“He’s good with kids,” he confided, as they followed just a few steps behind. He didn’t chide Dad for taking a photograph of Mia and Tony from the back, hand-in-hand. “It’s no trouble,” he added.

“This is really more than we could’ve ever expected,” Dad said, putting his phone away. “Truly.”

“Well,” Steve said, smiling despite himself as Tony paid for the reindeer before having the cast member snip the tag and passing it down to Mia, who promptly squished it against her chest again. “Sometimes it pays just to be nice.”

“You know,” Tony said, as he and Mia rejoined Steve and Mia’s dad. “I was just telling Mia that I’ve _never_ seen the _Frozen_ ride before.” Wagging their last universal FastPass, he added with a wry grin, “And I have a golden ticket. How about it, Dad? Mom around? We got boarding room for five.”

Mom was sitting outside, one hand nursing a very pregnant belly. “Oh,” she said when she saw them, Mia squealing as she presented Sven, “new friend?”

“Iron Man!” Mia chirped, holding up Sven. “C’mon, c’mon!” she added, clinging to Mom’s hand and pulling her towards the ride.

“You know,” Dad said, as they moved through the winding FastPass line together, “this is actually our second visit.”

“Third time around the pond, myself,” Tony said, arching his eyebrows when Mia swiveled and darted back to their side, looking at Tony and Dad, occupied, before abruptly latching onto Steve’s hand and tugging him along.

“C’mon, c’mon!” she urged. “Hurry!”

“Okay,” Steve said, following the little princess through the dark, winding queue. It was clear that _Frozen_ was not merely an attraction, but _the_ attraction in EPCOT for her. Her familiarity with the complicated queue was oddly endearing; clearly, it wasn’t her first rodeo. 

“Is Iron Man—” Mia began, turning to check but still clutching Sven under an arm, his hooves nearly on the floor.

Steve warned, “Careful, you don’t wanna drop him.”

Holding the reindeer tightly in both arms, Mia said, “Up?”

Blinking, Steve turned to look at Tony, who said, “Here,” but Steve could put two-and-two together pretty easily, leaning down and scooping her up easily, holding her in one arm and steadying her with the opposite hand, asking, “Better?”

“High!” she giggled, setting Sven on his shoulder.

“Careful, old man,” Tony teased, as they finally reached the end of the FastPass line and came to a halt.

“It’s very sweet of you,” Mom said, leaning against the wall and smiling at them. “She seems very comfortable with you two.”

“All him,” Steve said, nodding at Tony.

Tony smirked, taking the challenge to be less than charismatic for what it was. “Please, I carry this mule all day, it’s the least he can do,” Tony said, thumping Steve on the back of the shoulder that wasn’t occupied by a three-year-old and still managing to be nothing but a delight. “Earn your keep.”

“Do you like _Frozen_?” Mia asked him.

Steve said truthfully, “I don’t know.”

“I do,” Mia said, trampling his shoulder with the reindeer, like it was galloping across the snow. “It’s my favorite.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh huh!”

“Well, I don’t have a favorite, yet,” Steve said, absentmindedly bouncing her, making her giggle. “Maybe this’ll be my favorite.”

It _was_ a boat ride, which Steve immediately liked. Mia seemed perfectly content to be wedged between Mom and Dad one row in front of them, so Tony and Steve were allowed to commandeer the back of the vessel, and the rest of their boat filled out. 

_Frozen_ was, thankfully, more interesting than anything Captain America or Iron Man possibly had to offer, as the entire boat fixated at once on the immediate journey rather than their star passengers, even though they were in fairly plain view. The cast member manning the station _did_ wave fairly enthusiastically at their departing vessel, but once they were underway, they were pleasantly removed from any starstruck action.

And then: “Sven!” a little voice shrieked from in front of them, as a full-sized version of the cartoon reindeer in Mia’s hands appeared. And a . . . _dancing_ snowman?

How was it _dancing_?

“Don’t look at me,” Tony said in an undertone that could not have been audible to the other boaters, rubbing Steve’s back in that, _I’ll tell you when you’re older_ way. “This ride is for children,” he said, like that would somehow simplify the astonishingly complex nature of it.

The mechanics were outstanding—and he was absolutely _engrossed_ in how fluidly the snowman danced across the hills, its reindeer companion bobbing his head joyfully from side-to-side, so lifelike Steve felt certain he could go up and pet it, take it on an afternoon stroll. So many of the rides featured characters fixed in place—to see them _move_ so dynamically was, _wow_.

He was pleasantly surprised at how light the whole experience was, the ride equivalent of angel cake, nothing narratively demanding, nothing sinister or frightening or disarming. He found himself enjoying the show for what it was, an opportunity to sit back, relax, and enjoy _Frozen_ for the first time. There was clearly more to the story, but it felt like a great introductory course. 

He laughed was their boat was pushed _backwards_ , sloping downhill. Firming his grip around Tony’s shoulders, he saw Tony smile in the blue-lit quasi-darkness. As they reoriented around a pile of snowmen and their massive snowman host, Steve mused softly, “This is nice,” and saw Tony nod, almost like he wasn’t expecting it to be.

As they disembarked, Mia bouncing up and down chanting, “Wow, wow, wow!” they shared a smile.

* * *

“Y’okay?” Steve asked, as they sat on the steps of the Mexico pavilion.

Tony, flushed and out of breath, grimaced. “Great,” he said, but it was clearly strained. For a man who usually walked three to four miles a day, the twelve to fifteen miles they were pulling were clearly putting more strain on his heart than he wanted to admit. “I’d say let’s go up, but we . . .” He shook down his sleeve to check his nonexistent watch, grabbing Steve’s sleeve and checking his watch, instead. “Have less than ten minutes to get to _Soarin’_. Where does the time go?”

“Are you all right, sir?” a blue-shirted cast member asked.

Steve could almost hear the growl in Tony’s chest, but he managed a calm, “I’m perfect” and only sounded a little breathless.

“Can I give you a lift?” the cast member asked, which drew both of their gazes upward, surprised.

The cast member nodded off to the side, where a _golf cart_ , of all things, was parked. “Be happy to,” he added, concerned but also very clearly aware of who he was speaking to, his voice clear and deferential. “There’s quieter places to cool off.”

“On second thought,” Tony said, gliding to his feet, “a lift would be _wonderful_.”

Steve commandeered the back of the golf cart, one hand curled around the blue backpack, while Tony sat up front with—“Brian. Where to?”

“The Land,” Tony said. “Your timing is impeccable.”

“Happy to help,” Brian said. “Having a good day?”

“You could say that,” Tony said. “Got a little bumpy in the middle.”

“Uh oh. Anything I can do to help?”

Shaking his head, Tony replaced his dark sunglasses, assured, “I think I’ve got it,” and added, “Got careless. Circus act drew attention.”

It clicked, then—of course people would notice him trekking around with full-sized human cargo, and in the overcast environment, Tony hadn’t thought to put on his sunglasses to mask his iconic looks. “Well, I’m happy to help, any way I can,” Brian said. “It’s an honor, really.”

“You’re a hero, Brian,” Tony said, and even sounded like he meant it.

“Gee,” Brian said. “That’s nice of you.”

They pulled up to the gate in less than four minutes. Brian added, “Here, I got one more trick up my sleeve.”

“Brian,” Tony said, clasping him on the shoulder and saying sincerely, “if you give me another free ticket, I will be forced to violence.”

Brian laughed, then said, “Oh, hey, if you want,” but said, “Just stay put,” and disappeared through the _Cast Only_ door.

“Not too late to make a break for it,” Tony said, leaning against Steve’s shoulder.

“Seemed like a nice guy,” Steve said, kissing the top of his head briefly.

“Mm. They always do,” Tony warned, but he perked up when Brian reappeared, an autograph book in hand. “Brian,” he said, inflecting—or perhaps exposing—pain in his voice.

“Open it,” Brian said, holding it out.

Steve took the book, sensing an _I’m at my carrying capacity_ moment from Tony, and flipped it open. Instead of white, every page was _filled_ —with signatures from Disney cast members. There were dozens, _hundreds_ , of names, and on each page, in the center, was an exclamatory message, like FROM THE WORLD and DISNEY <3 A. TEAM. 

“We’ve been working around the clock,” Brian explained, as Steve skimmed through the book, lingering over, THANK YOU and WE LOVE YOU, along with sillier notes like ASSEMBLE! and HULK OUT, SHIELD UP! “If you don’t make it to the other parks, just let your concierge know, they’ll make sure that—” Brian began, but Tony interjected in a voice strained, on the verge of emotion:

“Oh, God, don’t tell me there’s more.”

Brian smiled, while Steve allowed Tony to take the book and skim over the names, like he was memorizing them. “We may have passed the word around once we heard you guys had checked in,” Brian admitted. “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. There’s even some old cast members,” he added, when names like SCOTT ’08 and ANNE ’12 showed up, “that wanted in. Those are their retirement years. It’s a very special opportunity.”

Tony’s eyes were glossy, and he did not even try to speak, turning pointedly a full ninety degrees away from them, the baby-blue backpack almost comical on his back. “This is,” Steve began, struggling to articulate in words what it _meant_ , finally settling on, “thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, Captain. It’s my genuine pleasure. And it’d be my pleasure, if it wouldn’t be unwelcome, to escort you around, anywhere you’d like to go. It’s really the least we can do—we’re looking forward to making this the most magical experience we can for you.”

“You’ve gone above and beyond,” Steve assured, as Tony pivoted back to them, expression clear but clearly still floored, closed book in hand.

“How do you feel about _Soarin’_?” Tony asked.

“Best ride in the park,” Brian said at once.

They didn’t even scan in their expired and hard-earned FastPass—Brian simply scanned _his_ Magic Band and they passed through the gate. Walking down the long, terminal-like queue, he asked, “Have you two been on _Test Track?_ ”

“I have a self-driving Audi,” Tony said, a touch dryly.

Laughing, Brian said, “Okay,” and then: “Anything else in EPCOT? _Mission: Space?_ ”

Some of Tony’s good humor dimmed a touch as he said, “Heard that one doesn’t go over so well for people with serious heart conditions.”

“Oh.” Recovering quickly, Brian added, “Tour the World Showcase?”

“Where were you four hours ago, Brian?” Tony said in mock annoyance.

“Collecting autographs,” Brian admitted. “I’ll be sure to have an escort available for you at the next park, save you time—”

“We like hoofing it,” Tony shrugged, turning to Steve and adding, “don’t we?”

“Adds to the adventure,” Steve concurred, surprised it was true.

“In that case,” Brian said, “let me at least replace the FastPass you lost,” as they stepped up to the end of the FastPass line.

He loaded a _Multi-Experience FastPass_ onto their app, explaining, “You can use that anywhere in EPCOT, including _Frozen Ever After_ or _Test Track_ , but also on the tier two attractions, like _Spaceship Earth, The Seas with Nemo and Friends,_ or _Living with the Land_. Usually, the tier two attractions have much shorter lines,” he added. “I’d recommend using it on _Frozen_ or _Test Track_. You’ll get more ‘bang for your buck.’” He made quotation marks by hand, smiling as he added, “Of course, it’s all free, so it’s up to you.”

“Wonderful,” Tony said, pocketing his phone.

“I’d be happy to take you on _Soarin’_ for a second flight,” Brian added, smiling. “It’s the least I can do, after making you wait.”

“Now _that_ ,” Tony said, leaning back against Steve’s chest, “I _will_ take you up on.”

* * *

Brian ensured they got the best seats in the house.

Steve didn’t even know if there _were_ bad seats on _Soarin’_ , but as he settled in, buckled in, stowaway items secure, it felt like . . . coming _home_ , in an odd way.

After a long, hard day, there was nothing he wanted to do more than sit back, relax, and enjoy a good hang-glide ride, and that was precisely what they did.

Curling his hand around Tony’s, he shut his eyes and basked in it, then opened them as they were finally cleared for launched.

And as they soared up, up and away, he felt utterly untouchable, and perfectly at ease, the black band on Tony’s finger already familiar against his palm.

* * *

With the little purple dragon again tucked in the collar of his shirt, Steve observed dryly, “This seems inadvisable.”

“Absolutely,” Tony said, reaching over to rub Figment’s head for good luck, wriggling in his seat in excitement. “Still wanna get my hands on the _Miray_. We can definitely get our hands on the _Miray_. That would take the magic out of it.” Pulling up on the yellow safety strap vigorously at the cast member’s instruction, he did the same for Steve, adding, “Ready for the ride of your life?”

“Someone’s spunky,” Steve said.

“We’re taking _Figment_ on _Test Track_ , of course I’m spunky,” Tony said, the blue backpack and its Banshee wedged between his knees. “This is _optimal_ Disney, now go, baby, go!” he added, as their car zoomed up hill.

“Thought you didn’t like this one!” Steve told him as they crested the hill and zipped around the corner.

“Quiet, heathen!” Tony bellowed. “And don’t drop Figment!”

Deeply amused and glad that the cast member at the gate had bent the rules to give them an entire car to _themselves_ , Steve asked loudly, “Doesn’t this hurt their bottom line?”

“I paid them thirty-thousand dollars in two days,” Tony shouted back, howling in unbridled joy as they revved forward through the first test, off-roading with surprising violence, even the second-time-around. “They owe me!”

It really _was_ like going off the course, Steve thought, even though he could _just_ make out the real tracks, courtesy of his night vision. “Hey, they said we can go on it four more times!” Tony added loudly. “Brian’s a miracle worker!”

“Awh, God, Tony!” Steve said, half-groan, half-laugh, as they rounded a corner and passed through “bad weather” sequencing. “We still have twenty-four-hours on property, you know!”

“I know!” Tony said gleefully. “Carpe diem!”

* * *

Wearing a dark blue sweater with TEST TRACK emblazoned on the front and an equally obnoxious hat with a blue TT stamped on it, Tony Stark stated simply, “No, I’m not kidding. How much for the puppy?”

Sitting in the VIP lounge above the _Test Track_ lobby, the Chevrolet representatives exchanged looks. “We cycle it out,” he began. “So there _is_ a price.”

“Great,” Tony said, pulling out his checkbook from his baby-blue backpack, his blue Banshee on his shoulder to complete the theming. Laying the book on the table, he said, “Name it. I would like the baby.”

Another look. “We’ve never,” began the second representative.

“Let me get,” the first added, to an approving nod of the second.

“He’s gonna get the bigger guy,” the second one explained. “Can I get you gents some coffee?”

“I thought you’d _never_ ask,” Tony said. Then, scribbling a check for $1,000, he offered drolly, “For the coffee.”

“I don’t know if we have that much in the backroom,” the representative joked, sounding both abashed and flattered. “Truly, what can I do for you gents? We don’t entertain royalty often.”

“This man,” Tony said, reclaiming the check, shredding it—it was a testimony to their newfound friendship and twenty-years of perfect salesmanship that the representative didn’t let out an audible rebuttal, only flinched a little—before writing out a new one for _$5,000_ and handing it off—“knows how to play ball. What’s your name?”

“Steve,” the Chevy representative said, making Tony laugh. “Ecker,” he added helpfully.

“Sorry, Ecker,” Tony said. “Normally, I’m not an ‘arm’s length’ guy, but this would get weird quick.”

“That’s perfectly fine,” Ecker said, looking at his competitor and offering, “Truly, no man I’d rather be superseded by, Captain Rogers.”

“I stand above no man,” Steve said, standing across from him while Tony sat alone at the round table in his ridiculous getup. In the air-conditioned room, it made sense, but it still seemed somewhat elaborate to be negotiating for a _car_.

“What kind of number?” Tony asked, flicking the pen in the air and catching it.

“Our centerpiece sells for eighty grand,” Steve 2 said. “And the silver _Miray_ is meant to be a fairly permanent display piece, seeing as we don’t have a replacement immediately lined up.”

Nodding to himself, Tony said, “I can work with that.” Rising, he clasped Steve 2 on the shoulder, directed him to the broad windows overlooking the park, picture-perfect approaching sunset, and asked, “What’s the best place to eat in EPCOT, and do they deliver?”

“I think we can work something out,” Steve 2 assured. “Say the word, Mr. Stark. I’d recommend _Via Napoli’s_ pizza, it’s absolutely killer.”

“See, I knew I liked you, Ecker,” Tony said. “Let’s get something in motion.” Still steering Steve 2 around, he asked, “How long have you been with Chevy?”

“Twenty-seven years.”

“No kidding?”

Ambling over to the big windows, Steve lifted his phone, took a picture, and sent it off to Clint.

Clint responded immediately: _Beautiful!!!!!!!_ Then, a moment later, a picture appeared of Clint in tan-and-white robes, double-fisting light-up swords, red and yellow in one hand, green and blue in the other, beaming an award-winning smile as he captioned it, _Galaxy's Edge preview!!!!!  
_

He posed with a purple sword in the next shot, feet planted and blade extended, spectacularly luminous in the dark room, obscuring his features. _Lightsabers!!!!!_ he explained, and it clicked: _Star Wars_. Steve’s cultural reeducation had been fairly sweeping, but there was still plenty of information to soak up in seventy years, and more still becoming relevant all the time; staying “hip with the kids” was a demanding task.

 _We met Chewy!!!_ Clint added, sending another picture, this one of a towering, exceptionally hairy creature, with Clint on its left side and Bruce trapped under Clint’s arm, looking like he had been captured at the last moment. His green sword hung limply at his side, lit but not combat ready. _And Rey!!!!!!_ Clint beamed, sending more of pictures of the gang, this time with a woman who looked like a far-better dressed Clint. The first image was a group shot, then one of Natasha and Rey alone, side-by-side, Natasha’s black sword impressive in the well-lit space.

 _Hope you don’t mind dating a Sith lord_ , Clint added, showing off a picture of the blue and red sabers lying side-by-side.

 _Congratulations_ , Steve typed back, grateful Siri spared him from typing out the entire word. _Looks good_ , he added, which took more time, as Siri did not immediately pick up the gist of the ball he was rolling.

On a roll, Clint sent more pictures, soldiers dressed in all white gear— _Stormtroopers!!!!!!_ —and an all-black version that even Clint feigned reserve around. _We met baby Darth!_ he wrote. _I beat him in hand-to-sword combat!_ Baby Darth looked extremely put out even behind the unchanging mask as Clint held up his phone at a jaunty angle to capture the self-portrait of him holding an impressive, cross-like red sword with a bested-in-combat beam on his own face. 

_Got Thor and Rhodes a sword_ , Clint added, showing another picture of a yellow and white sword side-by-side. _Ohana means family and family means nobody gets left behind or forgotten_.

Smiling, Steve wrote carefully, _Don’t tell Tony. He likes surprises_.

 _Aye aye, Cap’n!_ Clint sent another picture, more updated, it seemed, of them sitting in a restaurant, their swords magicked away, and asked, _Nat and I are gonna hit up MK at 9, you guys in?_

 _TBA_ , Steve wrote back. It was just after seven, so they had plenty of time, but even he was feeling the excitement of the day—the idea of going to another _park_ was almost overwhelming.

 _Had the sabers shipped back to the room_ , Clint added. _But we’re still gonna ditch Bruce, so we’ll be making at least one pit stop._

 _Nice of you_ , Steve wrote.

 _You know him,_ Clint replied speedily. _Guy would be lost without us. You still in EPCOT?_

 _Yes_.

_Awesome. I’ll let you know when we’re heading to MK, just keep me posted._

_Will do. Stay safe._

_Always do, Cap. Keep an eye on your boy. No crazy stunts_.

Wondering how Clint would respond if he knew they were in the market for a luxury car deal at Disney World, Steve left it at that, taking another picture of the setting sun for good measure as Tony returned to his side, drink in hand and said, “Pizza’s on its way, and so are the big guys. We’re thinking of swapping for the 2015 proto. How’re you holding up?”

“Me?” Steve said, surprised. “Terrific. I can do this all day.”

Humming dubiously, Tony said, “Not even a little tired?”

“Are _you_ tired?”

“Energizer Bunny,” Tony retorted, tapping the arc reactor underneath the sweater. “I never stop hustling.”

“Do we _have_ the 2015 proto?” Steve asked instead, refocusing.

Tony smiled wolfishly. “No. But it’s easier to get your hands on a two-year-old model than a seven-year-old model. Might be a two-for-one deal, but, I _am_ attempting to buy out the display piece. Kind of what I signed up for.”

“Sure it’s worth the trouble?” Steve asked. “Seems like an expensive paperweight.”

“Could say the same thing about your shield,” Tony said, smiling in a way that said, _I’m kidding_ very loudly. “I have a soft spot for old things that don’t work like they used to,” he added, which could have been another jab, but Steve knew it was a reference to a different kind of gallery: Iron Man suits, only about half of which were operational, a quarter that were fully operational. 

Tony Stark really was the man who did not merely recycle; he rarely threw away, cherishing things beyond their expiration date, beyond their usability, simply because they had once been useful to him. And Steve knew, in a way, that he wanted to bring the Mi-Ray _home_ , somewhere it could den up and belong rather than being forever on the cusp of wanting a road to travel on. It wasn’t about _making_ it into a super-car; it was about taking the stellar little super-car home at last, almost a decade after it had first been shown to an awe-inspired public.

If it cost two million dollars to do it, well—Steve had hardly flinched at the tens of millions spent on private jets, because Tony had spent countless hours explaining their practicality, and how he had specifically worked out fuel efficiency, and how he used his suit for most voyages, besides. He could go all-out in Disney World, and while for most folks that meant a couple thousand dollars, it seemed only fitting that for Tony Stark, it _would_ be a couple million dollars.

In simple numbers, the Mi-Ray had cost about $250,000 to build. Doubling the price to include the [2015 Chevrolet FNR’s](https://www.carbodydesign.com/media/2015/04/Chevrolet-FNR-Concept-07.jpg) production cost, one arrived at the modest sum of half a million dollars. Then there was the matter of _purchasing_ the FNR, which meant well over an hour on the phone with people even the Chevy representatives did not have access to, who Tony had dealt with extensively in car deals in the past and built up a good rapport. 

They were willing to hand over the FNR for the modest sum of $1.5 million. While it was six times the production cost, the concept car was a one-of-a-kind, truly irreplaceable vehicle. If anything, it was a favor for a friend—and the fact that it was a display piece for the Walt Disney World company, rather than a private piece, sweetened the deal. Transportation and carrier fees lumped on an extra hundred-and-fifty grand, just to get the FNR on the _Test Track_ stage floor.

Once the FNR was signed and sealed, the Disney executives were surprisingly persuadable about the Mi-Ray. It had been their showpiece for six years—replacing it was far from the farthest thing from their mind, and they were quietly thrilled to have a sponsor shouldering the bulk of the cost to purchase a sleeker, meaner, black-and-blue replacement for the outdated silver car. Tony immediately opened with, “I won’t take it home for a dime under three hundred thousand,” as if it would be an insult to the Mi-Ray’s honor to ferry it off without offering a proper dowry.

The company was so surprised that he was willing to replace their showpiece completely that they didn’t offer a counteroffer, merely popped the champagne, drew up the paperwork, and beamed over their bouncing baby boy that would be arriving in less than a week to delight and astound a new crowd. As for Tony, his only request was, “I want you to put the biggest red bow you can find on it,” which earned hearty chuckles from the seven executives and representatives that had found their way to the informal little lounge above _Test Track_ to enjoy _Via Napoli_ pizza with them.

2011 Chevrolet Mi-Ray, total cost: $1,995,950.94.

Reaching up to rub the little blue Banshee’s head on his shoulder, Tony leaned back in his chair, beaming like he’d won the lottery, not even bothering to hide his genuine delight at the turn of events, a rare moment where all parties truly had gotten what they wanted out of it. Sure, it would be at least two weeks before _their_ baby came home, but it was official: the Mi-Ray was theirs, and all that was left was to feast and be merry.

“Gentlemen, ladies, it _has_ been a pleasure,” Tony Stark said, looking around the room and making it truly seem that way.

* * *

To celebrate, they rode the coaster last time with Steve 2 and three other reps in the backseat. Steve 2 said, “I never get tired of this.”

“It grows on you,” Steve said, amused, one arm slung along the side of the ride vehicle while Tony said:

“You know, I would _swear_ two mil bought me out of the middle seat,” which made both Steve and Ecker laugh.

“I offered to ride on the hood, they said no,” Ecker insisted.

“Gotta put your foot down,” Tony told him, shaking his head and making a show of squishing up against Steve 1 as they veered sharply to the left, off-roading. “Grow a spine, Ecker.”

“Sure try, Mr. Stark,” said Ecker. “I’ll try.”

There was no purchasing the ride picture—Ecker simply had it printed for them, insisting, “Commemorative.”

“Nothing says, _Signed, sealed, and delivered_ ,” Tony said, amused, showing Steve the picture. If anything, repetition only made the heart grow fonder—they looked even more delighted the sixth time around as they had the first. “It’s been a pleasure,” Tony repeated, shaking Ecker’s hand firmly. “Say hi to the kids for me.”

“Absolutely,” Ecker agreed, shaking his hand. “They won’t believe it.”

“Not everyday you sell a car,” Tony agreed sagely. “It’s a hard-knock life.”

Beaming, Ecker said, “You’re a treasure, Mr. Stark.” Grasping Steve’s hand surprisingly firmly, he shook warmly and repeated, “Truly, both of you. I hope you have a wonderful evening. Come back, would you? We’d love to have you.”

“No promises,” Tony warned, sounding genuinely rueful. “Got things to do. World keeps turning.” Then, pointedly, he asked, “You got a phone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, don’t put this on your Facebook,” he warned, “this is for the kids, remember.” Looking a bit more like himself, hat and Banshee still tucked away for the ride but blue _Test Track_ sweater on, he held up Ecker’s phone facing them and instructed, “Say _Cheese_.”

Ecker laughed, which was good enough in Tony’s book as he snapped the self-portrait, handing Ecker back his phone and saying, “If they don’t believe that, tell them they’ll make great lawyers someday.”

“Come back any time, ask for Steve,” instructed Ecker, still beaming. “Or Todd, one of us’ll be around. Either way, as far as we’re concerned, you’ve got FastPasses for life for this one.”

“You’re a good man, Steve,” Tony said, which made Steve’s head twitch, involuntarily responding to the name, before Tony fished his silly hat out of his bag, replaced it on his head, and said brightly, “Wish us luck.”

“Happy travels,” Ecker bid them.

* * *

Leaning back and forth on the bar on the Monorail, Tony swayed, clearly restless. “I think I drank too much coffee,” he said, taking a seat next to Steve, only to bop over to the other side of the car, then sprawling dramatically, saying, “If I keel over, remember me fondly.”

“You wanna go back to the hotel?” Steve asked, a touch hopefully. He was scarcely tired, but he’d be happy to entertain himself if it meant giving Tony a break. He hated the thought of pushing him too hard.

“I don’t think I could sleep if I tried,” Tony said, pulling out his phone and saying, “Clint and Nat are heading to the Magic Kingdom. Race ‘em there. You in?”

“I’m game for whatever you’re game for, Tony,” Steve said honestly.

Still lying on his back, Tony texted back, then blew out a breath and set his phone on his belly. “One more day,” he said, sounding both sad and relieved. “I can definitely survive one more day.”

“It’s not a race,” Steve reminded.

“No, it is,” Tony said, wagging a finger in the air. “Hey, if we get there in the next twenty minutes, we’ll be just in time for the fireworks show. Which is the very best time to ride all the rides.”

Having involuntarily grimaced at _fireworks show_ , Steve asked, “You don’t wanna—watch?”

“I wanna ride rides,” Tony said, groaning as he sat up, their train pulling into the station. “Oh, God, I’m so tired.”

“Tony,” Steve rebuked. “We _can_ —”

“Uh-uh,” Tony cut in. “Magic Kingdom.”

* * *

Instead of heading towards the left and Adventureland, they cut down Main Street, packed to the _gills_ with people, and met Natasha and Clint in Tomorrowland.

“Triumphant return,” Clint greeted, holding both arms out wide for a hug. Steve scrunched up his nose; Tony rolled his eyes but stepped forward, offered an emphatic thump on the shoulder back, and said:

“Okay, so, _Buzz_ or—”

“ _Buzz_ has a five-minute,” Clint started, but Tony was already saying:

“Onward.”

“There really is a method to this,” Steve mused to Natasha, as Clint and Tony cut ahead, Clint’s arm strung across Tony’s shoulders. “How you holding up?”

“Oh, you know.” Curling an arm around his waist, Natasha walked alongside him at a decidedly more sedate pace and said, “I live for theme parks.”

“Yeah, you strike me as a theme park kind of dame,” Steve agreed, amused, as Clint and Tony steered towards the right. “Nice of you to come.”

“It’s not all bad,” Natasha admitted. “We only rode _Tower of Terror_ twice. Thought Banner was gonna up and die.” She smiled a little in the futuristic orange and blue lighting, adding, “You’d like Hollywood Studios. Really gives off the old-timer vibe.”

“I go where he goes,” Steve said truthfully, nodding after Tony, who had paused impatiently at the gate of the entrance. “All right, we’re coming,” he added, releasing Natasha so he could cross the ground in brisk strides. “What is this?”

“Shooter game,” Clint said gleefully. “Forty-minute daytime standby, so—this is the only time you can walk on.” There was the familiar crackle of fireworks in the background, but they were already processing through the short outdoor queue.

It wound and wound and wound over itself like a coiled-up snake, empty as could be, and Clint said, “I could definitely—” but Steve caught him by the back of the collar before he could duck under the bars, insisting:

“Lead by example.”

“Who’s watching?” Clint grumbled, shooing Tony along. “Hey, I’m stealing your boyfriend,” he added. “Haven’t seen him all day. We’re riding this at least twice.”

Used to Clint’s backseat driving, Steve said, “You can try.” To Natasha, he added amusedly, “He been like this all day?”

“I left him with Banner in _Toy Story Land_ ,” Natasha said. “Can only imagine what that was like.”

“You’re a very patient woman,” Steve said honestly.

“It’s not hard,” Natasha said dryly. “Boys are the same. Churros. It’s all about churros.”

“What’s a churro?” Steve asked.

From around the corner, Clint bawled, “You don’t know what a _churro_ is?”

“Look, his reeducation is not my responsibility, I only signed up for the first eighteen months,” out-of-sight Tony defended.

“Cinnamon stick,” Natasha said. “Breaded cinnamon stick. I’ll explain later,” she added, pushing him through a narrowing in the queue around the corner.

Steve observed, “Hey, Tony, it’s the space-man.”

“Astronaut,” Tony came back dryly, now several queue lanes ahead.

“Knew what I meant,” Steve said, both a counterpoint and a complaint. “What’s a Zurg?”

“Gesundheit,” Clint said, nearly at the front of the empty queue.

Natasha ducked smoothly through the rails. Steve sighed and said, “Gonna get us in trouble,” and when nobody hollered at them, ducked under the railing before they could disappear through an open doorway.

“Kids,” he chided, snagging Tony by the backpack while Clint practically pranced in place, then darted forward as soon as the cast member let him onto the loading dock. Like _Spaceship Earth_ , the track moved continuously, letting them into the open-door ride vehicles before they closed at the end of the walkway. Clint darted into his own vehicle, Natasha following in the one behind.

“No, you’re with me,” Tony said, tugging him when he waited a moment too long, thinking perhaps it was one person per vehicle, after all.

“Hah hah, you fools!” Clint brayed, entering a dark room and turning the wheel of his car madly, spinning in slow circles. “Limitless power!”

“I’m going to hurl _looking_ at him,” Tony said, pointing his gun mockingly at Clint. “Knock it off, Bird Brain.”

“Get on my level!” Clint volleyed back, still spinning.

To his credit, he spun in slow circles the _entire_ ride, altering between clockwise and counterclockwise as they entered a cartoony, neon-green stage and saw dozens of big bullseyes, each with a Z in the middle. Strange noises emitted from the vehicle with each laser bolt fired, yet not bullets or even water issued from the guns. “Weird shooter game,” Steve said, following the little red dots from every direction with perfect focus. “Kinda bullets are those?”

“Lasers,” Tony said. “Light,” he added. Spinning their car once by turning the wheel, he added, “Now don’t touch that, that was a demonstration.”

Gingerly, more curious about getting a better view of the scenery than upsetting equilibrium, Steve swished them to the far left, observing strange, almost ghoulish creatures rising from the ooze, bobbing and swaying. “Are these Zurg?” he asked.

“No,” Tony said, swinging them around sharply to the right, pointing at a tall, dark-violet figure. “ _That’s_ Zurg.” When Steve left his gun unattended, he took it, and Steve took the wheel, swiveling around in a very slow sweep of the field.

“Hey, look,” he said, spinning it around in a full half-circle, facing backwards. “Neat.”

“Neat,” Tony agreed, jerking the wheel to the right again. “I can’t shoot other passengers; gimme something.”

“Got it,” Steve said, trying to keep his sightseeing in line with Tony’s sharpshooting, even turning in his seat while holding the wheel steady for Tony. “Hey, look,” he added, swiveling slowly to face a sea monster. “You got a good eye,” he complimented as Tony nailed it with both bolts promptly.

“Like riding a bicycle,” Tony said dryly. “Never really goes away.”

Clint spun even faster in a dark tunnel, less concerned with shooting the monster than enjoying himself, while Tony said, “Bird Brain, I’ll shoot _you_ ,” and made Clint cackle.

“This is why we’re not going on the _Tea Cups_ ,” Tony added, jerking his chin at Clint, who didn’t let up his extra speedy spinning even as they emerged into a new alien landscape of monsters. “ _Every_ car does that.”

“Yuck,” Steve said heartily.

“It’s a tradition,” Tony said, swiveling them to the left, then back to the right. “ _Dumbo_ , _Mad Tea Cups_ —tradition,” he said.

“What else is tradition?” Steve asked, keeping them focused on the Zurg as Tony shot at it, even swiveling their ride vehicle so they’d have a parting shot at it.

“Uh, _People Mover?_ Might be kind of cool with the fireworks, actually—Bird Brain!” he hollered. “Stop it!”

“No!” Clint said gleefully, then let out an audibly disappointed noise, two cars away, as his vehicle finally came to a gentle stop and moved along the track horizontally. “Aww. We doing this twice?”

“What if we shoot for fireworks and _People Mover_ , could be a heck of a view?”

“Now _that’s_ innovation,” Clint complimented. “Hey, I’m a Space Ace!”

“Space Ace,” Tony echoed, reading the score and the board. “Heh. _Planetary Pilot_ ,” he added to Steve, nudging him in the side before bouncing out the vehicle, apparently happy that he had bested him, despite being the only one actually playing the game in their car.

At once, Clint said, “We’re riding this again.” Marching determinedly across the moving walkway, he added, “I will not be satisfied until there is an undisputed winner, Stark!”

Sighing deeply, Tony said, “I’m riding the _People Mover_ and you can kiss my as—astronaut,” Tony recovered. Tugging on Steve’s arm, he added, “Quick, before he gets ideas.”

Game for anything, Steve said, “You know me, Tony.”

“Have fun,” Natasha bid them, already following Clint at a sedate pace back around towards the queue. “I’ll let you know how many rounds it takes.”

“Looking forward to it,” Tony said, guiding him through silhouettes of people towards the opposite side of Tomorrowland. “You know, usually this isn’t my _scene_ , but tonight, I make exceptions.”

There was a five-minute posted wait, but it was like _Buzz Lightyear_ all over again: they walked through the queue, rode the escalator to the top, and when the cast member asked, “How many?” Tony held up two fingers, and then they were on board the _People Mover_.

“Easy as pie,” Tony said, sitting next to him and draping the blue backpack on the seat across from them, planting his cheek on Steve’s shoulder. “I am _exhausted_.”

“We don’t have to stay,” Steve said, turning his head and rubbing his cheek against the top of Tony’s head. “Had a big day already.”

“Shh. Heathen. I’m trying to enjoy the fireworks,” Tony said, pointing in the vague vicinity of the castle as music blared out from distant speakers. Taking them on a grand tour through the neon lights of nighttime Tomorrowland, their open blue car still provided ample flashes of overlapping sparklers, the distant booms and crackles muted by the mayhem of the park. “Seems like a heck of a show,” Steve said, as the castle changed colors abruptly. “Wow.”

“Mm-hm,” Tony agreed. Pulling out his phone, Tony recorded a short snippet of the fireworks, adding once he’d finished, “Have I mentioned how utterly _exhausted_ I am? I swear Barton ages me ten years.”

Laughing, a touch loopy himself, Steve said, “Yeah, he’s a handful.”

“God.” Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Tony said, “We’re not getting off ‘til they force our hands.”

“I’m fine with that,” Steve said, as Tony propped his feet up on the opposite bench and slumped against him. “This is nice,” he added, cozy and comfortable and enjoying being above the chaos on their empty train, far enough that the fireworks weren’t enough to jolt him out of the moment, just a lightshow to enjoy.

“Yeah, it’s really boring in the daytime,” Tony yawned. “Total walk-in-the-park. Old man thing. Only old men like this.”

“Gee,” Steve said, rubbing his arm idly through the dark blue sweater, “I guess we fit the demographic nicely, then.”

“Speak for yourself,” Tony grumbled. “I’m _thriving_.”

He was snoring before _Space Mountain_. Steve beamed quietly to himself in amusement as they zipped along the tracks, enjoying the futuristic scenery. The _People Mover_ wasn’t terribly exciting, moving at the same pleasant pace with a couple _Let’s giddy-up now!_ moments to cross longer stretches of quiet turf, but he liked that most about it, and it did make it an ideal attraction to nap on. Steve followed the unseen guide’s remarks about Tomorrowland, gazing down at each attraction, surprised at how much stuff was still _there_ , unseen.

There was simply no way to do it all, he thought, watching people scoot around in little go-carts on a racetrack. It was the ultimate amusement park. Made for _everyone_ , but no one person could hope to do _everything_. There was something almost calming about it, knowing that it was impossible to mark everything off the to-do list, that it was there for one’s perusal. It had a stroll-in-the-park atmosphere to it, where it didn’t matter where one’s path took—every square inch didn’t need to be covered.

And he very much liked the change of plans that had brought them to the _People Mover_. It was like a late-night drive on an empty road. Certainly better than clawing the walls at the hotel, wondering what Barton and Romanoff and Banner were up to. He knew exactly what they were up to, knew what the hordes of tourists below were up to, knew the whole world was out there, enjoying itself. He was enjoying himself, too, enjoying having the train all to himself.

It was a very long ride, but when they neared the station, he just looked at the open door on the side, then pointed downward at the opposing seat, a wordless, _Can we stay?_ The cast member waved them on, and the next cast member did the same, and off they went again.

Pleased, Steve propped his own feet up, feeling decadent, tuning out the narrator as he listened to Tony’s quiet breathing instead of the park noise, noise, noise. It was all so much, in the best way, but he was tired, too, in a different way, and there was something peaceful about ending the day small, like closing up the ranch after a full day’s work. It was just the best way to view the park, well above the reach of shoulders to walk into or noises to crowd their conversations.

He was nearly dozing himself by the time they reached the station again, the cast member waving him along. The fireworks were over, and he could see people beginning to file out of the park, tired folks ready to hit the hay. _Hope you had a fine day_ , he thought at them, feeling charitable and sleepy, hungry and sleepy, one arm curled over Tony’s shoulders, feet propped up next to his, nearly lulled into a half-sleep by the gentle turns and long straight drives of the _People Mover_.

By the fourth run, he did put his feet back down to enliven himself. He was aware that it was getting on in the night, and wondered how many times Clint and Natasha had ridden _Buzz Lightyear_ , or if they had wandered off, and found he didn’t mind if they had, that they would take care of themselves just as he and Tony were.

It was, truly, the very best ride in Disney World, he thought, because the whole experience was getting to spend some time with the park, alone, with somebody you loved. There was no need to talk about it, no need to decipher it, to marvel at it, even. It was simple and pure and wholesome fare, and he fished his own phone out of his pocket to record a bit, and then, uncharacteristically, took one self-portrait, not of himself, but of Tony, eyes closed, face turned into his shoulder.

He’d nearly forgotten the shirt he was wearing, what could only be described as _outrageously_ American from the back, although the front was tame, with just USA and a Mickey silhouette on the left breast pocket, but he found it was oddly fitting: when in Disney, he thought, tucking his phone away.

Waiting until they were one long stretch from the station, he nudged Tony back to wakefulness, informing him, “Think we oughtta be on our way.”

Tony snuffled, then nodded, sitting up and smacking his thigh playfully as if to say, _Couldn’t agree more, champ_ , and getting up mutely as they returned to the station.

Steve said, “Thanks for the run,” at the cast member, who said simply:

“My treat. I know somebody’s been looking for you two. She’s at the castle.”

“Uh oh,” Tony muttered. “Are we in trouble?”

The cast member smiled enigmatically. “No,” he said. “No, I don’t think so. Have a magical evening, gentlemen.”

“You, too,” Tony muttered, shouldering his backpack and saying, “If Barton _did_ something.” Shaking his head, he left the statement unfinished as they descended the opposite escalator.

“Oh, there you are,” Clint said, beaming.

“Did you jump off the ride?” Tony grumbled.

“Cheaters never prosper,” Clint said solemnly, stretching his shirt so it caught the light, revealing a shiny sticker over the left breast. “I am a _proper_ Galactic Hero, this is my prize.”

“He maxed out,” Natasha chimed in. “Five rounds.”

“Yup, we’re definitely getting kicked out,” Tony said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

* * *

Disney certainly had a nice way of kicking people out, Steve thought, as they congregated underneath the castle.

“Oh, _there_ you are,” preened a man dressed in a very dapper-looking uniform, its long white shirt and maroon vest pressed and proper with edges of gold. “Thank goodness. We were afraid you’d leave the park.”

Tony slanted a quick look at Steve that said, _Isn’t that the point?_ before fixing his attention back on the cast member. “Well, this is just wonderful,” bubbled the man, again at odds with the anticipated announcement: _Now, please leave, before you disturb the frivolities of our guests any longer_. “I don’t know how much you know, and I’d actually like this to be as much a surprise as possible, so—if you’ll follow me?”

Tony raised his eyebrows as though to say, _Getting kicked out is a surprise?_ but followed after the man anyway, one to meet his fate head-on.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“You can call me Stanley,” Stanley replied. “This way,” he instructed, guiding them into an elevator.”

It seemed like an awful lot of effort to be kicked out of the park, Steve thought, but he didn’t complain—it _was_ Disney, after all, and perhaps they tried to break the ice gently—as they piled in. “Where’re we headed?” Clint asked, irrepressibly curious.

“You’ll see,” Stanley assured. “Mere moments.” He pressed the button for the fourth floor—somehow, Steve expected to be taken to the basement, the _dungeons_ —and away they went.

Then the doors opened on a truly magical sight.

Reclining on a long lounge together, Prince Charming and Cinderella sat. “Oh, there you are,” Cinderella said lightly.

“Stanley, I was beginning to worry,” Prince Charming added, rising and offering his arm to Cinderella, who flowed smoothly to her feet beside him.

Tony seemed shell-shocked, and Steve wasn’t certain what his own expression revealed, but Stanley positively bubbled with joy as he said, “I’m terribly sorry, Your Highnesses, bit of a late start.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” Cinderella said, holding out a hand to them. Tony clasped it, more instinctively than consciously. “How are you, darling?”

“Missing something,” Tony said, a rare moment of acknowledged ignorance.

“Well, then, perhaps we can illuminate things for you,” Prince Charming said, shaking Clint’s hand. He said with quiet sobriety, “My lady,” and bowed to Natasha rather than taking her hand. 

Steve was impressed with the strength of the Prince’s grip when he came around, not punishing but very firm. “Captain,” he added, sounding genuinely touched to meet Steve.

“Your Highness,” Steve replied automatically, making Charming smile in contained amusement before he patted Steve on the shoulder, as though to say, _Yes, we’re all friends here_.

They were taken through a set of wooden doors into a perfectly pristine living chamber unlike any hotel or home Steve had ever been in. It was a suite fit for a castle, every bit of it elegantly decorated. There were aged marble floors and stained glass windows complemented by a fireplace with star-like lights roosting behind it instead of flames, marble columns and lacy gold patterns walking across the walls. Tracing a bookshelf with nameless tomes on it, Steve heard Prince Charming say, “We’ll let you explore the rest, won’t we?”

Tony swiveled to face him. “What?” he said.

Charming held out a strange-looking keychain with a red tag at the end to Tony. “Here’s the key,” he said. “Don’t lose it. Not as easy to find as a glass slipper,” he added with a rueful smile.

Tony took the key but held it limply at his side, the same frozen expression on his face. “I’m still missing something,” he said at last.

“It’s yours for the evening,” Cinderella explained, reclining on a different chaise near the windows, her flowing blue gown perfectly positioned around her. “Stanley can assist you with anything, but we couldn’t _not_ invite you for an evening once we heard you were in town.”

“Wouldn’t be proper,” agreed Charming. “Please—make yourselves at home.” Putting a hand on Stanley’s shoulder, he added, “Anything you need, say the word, he’ll take care of it.”

“You’re serious?” Clint said, sounding starstruck.

“Of course,” Charming said, as if the alternative had not occurred to him. “Come along, love,” he added, holding out his arm to Cinderella, who took it and flowed to her feet. “Until tomorrow,” he added, bowing his head before the two of them waltzed out of the room, escorted by their royal guard.

Taking a seat on the chaise where Cinderella had been, Tony said simply, “I’m dreaming.”

* * *

Sitting fully clothed in the empty hot tub was the kind of experience that exemplified Disney tradition, Steve thought, deeply satisfied. Both he and Tony had their socked feet up on the opposite side of the tub, pillowed by towels rolled up and embossed with _Cs_ —“For Cinderella,” Tony explained, head tipped on his shoulder as they looked up at the stars on the ceiling in the dimly lit room. “It feels decadent,” he added, wriggling his toes. “I’m shoeless in a Disney park. Don’t tell Stanley. He’ll kick us out for sure.”

Huffing a laugh, Steve said, “Tony, I don’t think he gives less of a damn how many clothes we wear at this point.”

“All my shit’s at the hotel,” Tony said mournfully. “I’m not asking Clint to bring it over, he’d definitely get more balloons.”

“I’ll get it,” Steve assured, rubbing a thumb over his upper arm, still covered in the soft, dark blue hoodie. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No, you’re stuck with me, mister,” Tony said, poking him in the chest. “God only knows what happens here after dark.” Sighing, he twisted so he was on his side hugging Steve like a teddy bear, adding, “See, now you’re completely trapped.”

“Uh huh,” Steve agreed, tugging the hood over his head absentmindedly. “Should’ve packed more stuff in the bag, ‘f I’d’ve known we’d be staying somewhere else tonight.”

“Very rude of them, really,” Tony muttered against his shirt. Then, like he was tired of the lack of contact, he shimmied up, unzipped the hoodie, stripped off the shirt and undersuit below—and only the thirty-degree day-night temperature drops could account for three layers in May, Steve mused, although the undersuit was a poor insulator, so it worked _against_ him at night—and then flopped happily back against Steve’s still-clothed chest. “Hah. Now I’m completely outside the law. Barricade the door.”

Nuzzling his temple, Steve said, “I love you.”

“Don’t get sappy on me,” Tony murmured. “You’re supposed to be my partner-in-crime.”

“Am I?” With a slight shrug, Steve carefully pawed off his own shirt, somewhat less arduously, although it wasn’t easy with Tony leaning up against him. “Better?” he asked, leaning back against the smooth walled tub, Tony pressing against him with a palpable hum of contentment.

“This is why shirts are lame,” he said.

“They come in handy,” Steve said, using his free hand to set them outside the tub. “Y’know. Miss ‘em when it’s cold out.”

“Just grow fur,” Tony suggested, rubbing his cheek against his stomach lightly. “Problem solved.”

“Werewolves are frowned upon.”

“Still let Bruce into theme parks,” Tony muttered mutinously, making him laugh.

“Yeah, he is . . . what’d you call ‘im?”

“Heroically hirsute?”

“That.”

“You’d think he’d have _no_ hair, given all the radiation,” Tony said, shaking his head. “But you’d also think he’d be dead, so sometimes I think he’s just—contrary.”

“Think he’s holding up?” Steve asked, tucking his chin over Tony’s head.

“If he’s conscious inside twelve hours, I’ll eat my hat,” Tony said, snugging a leg over Steve’s. “And I like my hat, it’s very _edgy teen_.”

“Is that what you were going for?” Steve asked, amused.

“Like to keep people off-guard,” Tony confided. “You know, they see you in a suit too much, screams _trust fund baby_. They need to see _you_ , especially when it’s not who they think you are. And I like blue,” he added with a self-deprecating shrug. “I’m wearing that hat, you can’t stop me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Steve assured, touched to be in his confidence, to _know_ him. So few people _got_ to know Tony Stark, underneath even half his showman’s coats. “It’s a good hat. Very practical,” he complimented.

“See,” Tony said, poking him in the chest again. “There’s a method.” Squirming, he added, “I’m so wired. I wish Dum-E was here. He exhausts me.”

Laughing, Steve said, “You know you can call him, right?”

Sitting up, leveling a raised eyebrow at Steve, Tony pawed around, snagged his phone from the edge of the tub, and held it up. “J., show me my baby boy.”

A security feed filled the screen. It was planted in the ceiling, so Dum-E wasn’t precisely the subject; the whole lab was shown. Nostalgia hit Steve like a wave at the sight, and he didn’t imagine the longing in Tony’s voice as he said, “Up and at ‘em, Dum-E, I want a proof-of-life.”

The big robot was still for a long moment, and then, like magic, J.A.R.V.I.S.’s relay traveled up the eastern seaboard and Dum-E stirred to life, its arm raising and waving back and forth at the camera. “I still have to find you Mickey ears,” Tony said suddenly, “maybe a hat. You set the lab on fire yet?” Again, there was a five-second delay where Dum-E simply waved and then, pausing deliberately, it swiveled around slowly, grabbed something, and held up a fire extinguisher. “Well, that counts. Good job. Say hi to Steve.”

Again, there was a noticeable delay in Dum-E’s usually prompt responses, as five seconds passed before it set down the extinguisher carefully, lifted its clawed hand, and opened and closed it several times before halting. “Can’t believe I almost forget your ears. U, too. How’s U?” This time, the feed switched to the opposite corner of the lab. 

They’d tried putting U and Dum-E next to each other, but the results were predictably chaotic as the robots fed off each other’s relay-responses, entangling and occasionally outright _brawling_ over the fire extinguisher. U’s grip strength was superior to Dum-E’s, even though Dum-E had a stronger possessive streak; Dum-E was designed to “keep ‘til stand down” while U had a “seek novelty” drive that, more than once, had led to the two bots nearly taking each other to the floor.

There was another ten-second delay before the Dum-E lookalike stirred and waved, moving more fluidly than its predecessor. Then, somewhat disconcertingly, Dum-E piped into view, waving again at the camera hopefully. “Dum-E, stop,” Tony ordered, as the robot approached U’s radius. “ _Now_.”

The five-second delay meant the timing was _very_ close, but Dum-E pulled up just as U lifted its clawed hand to wave. “This is what I get for giving you nice treads,” Tony told Dum-E, who, after the requisite five-second delay, lowered its arm nearly to the floor, its signal for _sorry_. 

“Okay, which one’s Mickey, which one’s Minnie?” Both bots waved at him after another short delay, but Dum-E took longer to reset, so Tony declared, “All right, we’ll sort when we get home. _Hey_ ,” he ordered, as U pawed around and held up the fire extinguisher hopefully, its automatic response for _provide options?_ “No, no fire— _Dum-E_ ,” he added, as the bot gravitated one tread roll closer. “I am going to _decommission_ you if you touch that, you have one. Go get your own.”

Cheerfully ignoring the mandate for five seconds, Dum-E turned on its treads and rolled off to fetch its own extinguisher. “J.A.R.V.I.S., please implement a five-foot radius around them,” Tony instructed. “Nobody inside arm’s reach.”

“Of course, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. replied, as Dum-E returned with its fire extinguisher in claw and halted, four-and-a-half-feet from U.

“Uh-uh. Back up.” As the order came through, Dum-E wheeled back slowly, to the very edge of the limit, determined to stay in frame. “If you two would play nice, we wouldn’t have this problem,” Tony grumbled. “U plays nice.” U didn’t have the same treads, Steve knew, so it didn’t have a _choice_ but to play nice, but it was oddly endearing that Dum-E had uprooted itself just to be in frame. “U is being _very_ good,” Tony added, which made Dum-E sink to the floor in the same apology stance. “No, don’t be sad, I feel bad when I’m this far away,” Tony sighed. “You’re both good. All right?”

Perking back up after the requisite delay, Dum-E did a double-flap with its claw, its own _acknowledged_ gesture. “See, harmony,” Tony said, just as Dum-E fixed its attention on the fire extinguisher in U’s claw. “ _No_ ,” he added firmly, as Dum-E upraised its own fire extinguisher. U mirrored it, a proper standoff. “Hey, hey, _hey_. Dad says no. Cool it.”

Chaos was a mere second away when J.A.R.V.I.S.’s intervention successfully kicked in and both robots lowered their weapons. “This has been instructive,” Tony muttered to Steve and the robots, who, after a short delay, began waving at the camera again, extinguishers on the ground. “Yeah, you know what you’re up to. Don’t think I won’t put you in timeout. Knock it off.” Dum-E reached hopefully for the fire extinguisher again after a long beat. “ _Put it down_ ,” Tony growled. “No fire extinguishers. I don’t know why I let you have those, they’re clearly a hazard.”

“Gives ‘em a sense of autonomy,” Steve chimed in. “Helpfulness. You’re a good robot,” he added, as Dum-E waved at the screen. “You, too.” The other robot began waving, too, and he smiled indulgently. “See, look. They’re good.”

“Uh huh. Sure, behave for him. All right, scamps. Dum-E, back to the corner. We’re switching cams,” he assured. “Night, U,” he added, who powered down. “C’mon, troublemaker. _Corner_.” Reclaiming its fire extinguisher, Dum-E rolled back to its staging area. “Can’t leave you alone for one day,” Tony grumbled good-naturedly. “All right. I’ll be back before you know it. Be good. Goodnight.” Dum-E set down its extinguisher and waved once, deliberately, _goodnight_ , before powering down.

Ending the call and setting the phone aside, Tony said dryly, “Well, now I just feel more awake than before. I can almost _hear_ the imminent disaster about to take place. Do we need a bot-sitter? They’re not even fully autonomous, and _yet_.” Sighing, he shimmied up, then ordered, “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Where am I gonna go?” Steve drawled. It was nice, hanging out in the dark room in the comfy tub, and even though they were technically in the _Magic Kingdom_ , it felt like they’d stepped outside it altogether, taking a relaxing detour.

Tony returned in short order with a pillow, of all things, propping it behind himself and explaining, “I don’t know about you, these jet nozzles are a pain.”

“Slept on the ground for a year,” Steve said truthfully. “Didn’t really notice.”

“Yeup, I’m marrying Bear Grylls,” Tony sighed, hopping over the rim and snuggling back down. “These old bones of mine ain’t what they used to be.”

“Well,” Steve offered. “We don’t have to _fill_ it.”

Eyeing him warily, Tony said, “All right, I’m listening.”

Sitting on the edge of the tub, divested of everything but their undergarments, they soaked their feet while Tony mused, “Now we’re _definitely_ gonna get kicked out.” He seemed pretty proud of the fact, kicking a little, not even raising a real splash. “There, that’s _Splash Mountain_. I don’t know why,” he added, circling his bare watch hand absentmindedly, “I didn’t bother with a watch, we haven’t been on any _you may get soaked_ rides. Clearly, we’re doing this wrong.”

“Nah,” Steve said, luxuriating in the toasty room and hot, ankle-deep water. “I think we’re doing dandy. We made it this far. Had to do something right.”

“ _And_ we didn’t even have to gator-wrestle Clint for the suite,” Tony added. “You know, the guy’s a Disney nut, I’m really surprised he didn’t fight for it.”

“Poly’s real nice,” Steve said. “Home’s home. He might’ve just been happy where he was at.”

“Yeah, but a _castle_ ,” Tony wheedled, grinning toothily as he leaned into Steve. “You’re saying you’d rather walk through the park, get on the Monorail, and go _all the way_ back to the Poly rather than stay here?”

“Well. When you put it _that_ way.” Pinning Tony’s foot with his when he tried to splash him, he added, “Hey. Keep it in the pool.”

“This pool is three feet deep, we have four inches of water in it,” Tony reminded drolly. “Here,” he added, flicking on the nozzle. “Now it’s a _tub_ ,” he added, once the water was near the top of their calves. “God, that’s nice. My legs are killing me. Why do people do this for fun? _Do_ people do this for fun?”

“Tony, you _chose_ to come here,” Steve reminded, amused.

“No, that doesn’t sound like me,” Tony retorted, stepping out of the tub, stripping off the last of his clothes, and then sliding in slowly, the water settling well below the reactor. “Voila,” he beamed. Resting both arms along the edges of the tub, he crossed his legs, elevating himself more and adding, “Room for one more.”

“Now, how could I say no to that?” Steve said, carefully joining him on the opposite side of the tub, testing how much higher his own bulk raised the water level as he settled in. When all was said and done, there wasn’t much space between the top of the water and the arc reactor, but Tony seemed perfectly at ease, trusting him not to cause waves. 

It wasn’t so sensitive that a drop of water would kill him, and he had gotten water on it before, but, as he described it, if it got into the wrong places, the experience was about as fun as getting stung by a bee. There was real danger, too: if the unit was submerged, it _could_ short out. He had a clear, easily removable tape that came in handy for such occasions, but without it, Steve knew he was tempting fate. It was a testament to how stiff he was that he was willing to chance electrocution for a chance to rest his weary bones.

“C’mere,” he suggested, and Tony knelt up, keeping the arc clear out of the water, before shuffling over to his side of the tub.

Leaning into the corner so he could take advantage of the diagonal length of the tub, Steve tucked one arm under the water and curled it around Tony’s belly below the arc, hauling him onto his lap. He left his other arm along the edge of the tub for balance, feeling Tony melt like butter against him. Propping his own feet out of the water, he settled into his role as a hammock contentedly, rubbing absentminded circles against Tony’s hip as they gazed up at the starry ceiling in silence.

With Tony’s back pressed against Steve’s chest, water could mingle higher up his back without ever drifting up over his ribcage, the light blue glow of the reactor safe, rising and falling almost more with Steve’s breaths than Tony’s, never nearing water’s edge. “You,” Tony murmured, stroking his arm, “are a genius.”

“Nah,” Steve said, “just engaged to one.” He could already feel the empty space where the ring wasn’t as Tony’s fingers grazed his arm, the band set aside for safekeeping, but the promise was still there as Tony sighed, feigning exasperation.

“You know what’s a crime?” Tony murmured.

“Mm?”

“You don’t even know Disney’s _Cinderella_ , do you?”

“No,” Steve admitted.

“J.A.R.V.I.S.? Help me out here. What’s the most _Cinderella_ thing out there?”

There was a very long pause as the A.I. processed the request. Then, from Tony’s phone, issued the soft notes of a song:

“ _A dream is a wish your heart makes, when you’re fast asleep. . . ._ ”

* * *

Wandering around the empty castle grounds at one in the morning with their chauffeur maintaining a respectable distance behind them, Steve could hear the song chasing itself ‘round and ‘round in his head as they ambled through brightly-lit and entirely empty Fantasyland.

 _In dreams, you will lose your heartaches_. _Whatever you wish for, you keep_.

Their guide had offered a formal tour, but Tony had said, “In the morning,” implying that tonight was for contemplation. 

Looking around the park, still awash in purples and blues and other soft rainbow hues, Steve detected the shushing sweep of street cleaners, the softer, sleepy tones of attractions devoid of people, all of it awaiting another day in the world that finally slept.

_Have faith in your dreams, and someday—your rainbow will come smiling through._

“It’s beautiful,” he managed, only once.

Tony squeezed his hand and said nothing, absorbing in radiant silence.

They were not pressed to capture the moment. Their guide took photographs for them: of the park, and of them, hand-in-hand, silhouettes in nearly every one but more magical for it. Thanks to one Clint Barton, they had even been able to change into more comfortable clothes. He had brought them a duffel bag with all their essentials, including Zeus the marshmallow Yeti and Tony’s own pillow, stuffed under one arm. 

For a guy who made a hobby out of driving those around him just a little mad, Clint had a real big heart on him, Steve thought. His only request for his services had been an invitation to any morning revelries, which Tony had assured would be waiting for him, Bruce, and Natasha, should they care to join them. 

_No matter how your heart is grieving, if you keep on believing, the dream that you wish will come true._

The brightly-lit, gold-festooned carousel was a particularly striking sight at night. So much of Walt Disney World was loud and unimaginably different, but there was something homey and wonderfully familiar about carousels. Like knowing they had not gone extinct was proof that some spark in the human spirit endured, unaltered, across the years. That in seventy years, one thing had not changed a bit: people still loved horses, and they loved the magic of being in a fairytale land.

He drifted towards the gate surrounding it where children would queue up, watching it complete a test revolution. Stanley had made it clear that they could not ride any attractions, but they were welcome to tour the entire grounds besides, and just watching the horses was magical, whimsical. When it slowed to a halt again, the cast member manning the dock whistled to capture their attention. 

“Now,” twinkled the cast member, “I know everyone else is fast asleep, but if you’d like to come see them up close, I’d be happy to show you. They won’t go anywhere.” He peeled open the gate, and stepped up, informing, “Ninety horses on this _Carrousel_. Seventy-two when we first opened,” the cast member said, walking from pole-to-pole among the crowd. “This was the very first attraction to open in Fantasyland. It’s been a staple ever since. Front-and-center, right behind Cindy’s castle.”

The word choice seemed strange, but then, moving to a horse one in from the outermost ring, the cast member directed, “Now, gents, this is a trade secret, but this, right here, this is Cindy. And right here,” he patted the flank of a golden-armored horse to her right, guarding the outermost edge, “is King. Guess whose mounts they are? None other than the royal couple’s,” he answered his question, nodding towards the castle. “Hop on. Gentlest steeds on the ride.”

Certain that all the horses were gentle rides, Steve nonetheless ran a hand over ornately-decorated Cindy before carefully leveraging himself onto the horse’s back in one easy swing. It was strange to sit on a horse’s back that didn’t move and twitch and snort, that wasn’t higher off the ground, yet it felt—like childhood. Like something real, and nice, and familiar. Putting his feet in the metal stirrups and taking the toy reins, he mused, “How fast does she go?”

The cast member positively _beamed_. “Would you like to find out?” He looked at Tony, who circled around King once, leisurely stepping around to tour the row of five horses, before, finally, stepping up onto King’s gold-plated back. “Remember, no hopping off, no tomfoolery,” the cast member reminded, wagging a finger and then winking at them. “This isn’t strictly in the books, but as long as you two don’t cause trouble, we’ll be good.” Then, hopping off the platform, he instructed, “Just wave a hand when you’re ready to call it, I’ll cycle you through.”

Returning to his station, he bellowed gleefully, “All right, gents! You ready for the ride of a lifetime? _Prince Charming’s Regal Carrousel,_ we’re off!”

Instantly, Steve was transported. The rolling motions of the plastic horses, the familiar echo of unexpected laughter from a delighted sea of riders captured by Tony’s delight, nearly in spite of himself, alongside Steve—all of it, the lights, the sounds, even without the music, so like stepping through a curtain and entering a room he had long thought burnt to the ground it was breathtaking. 

But where he expected sadness to creep in and remind him it was not real, there was only _joy_. Every inch of it was real—and better still, it came without limitations, without an end in sight. 

It was a nostalgia he could hold in his hands, that he could grasp and laugh at, that demanded nothing and offered all of itself. It was like a time portal that shouldn’t exist, and yet, as the horses galloped nowhere, basking in the golden-tinted night, he could taste the forties mingling with the calm of the twenty-first century. He felt perfect, unshakable peace.

Watching the horses bob in front of him, he imagined riders occupying them as he leaned against the pole on his own stead, embracing it all, imagined and real, memory fading into reality as Tony observed after a countless period, “I haven’t ridden a carousel in thirty-six years.”

“That’s longer than I’ve been alive,” Steve replied.

Tony paused, at the crest of King’s arc, then said, “Oh my God,” and laughed, honestly and uncontrollably, for a full revolution, as he processed that. “Wasn’t this good!” he added, crowing out, “This is what it means to be King!”

This is what it means to be King, Steve mused, fingers glossing over Cindy’s fake mane, picture-perfect, the detailing astonishingly intricate. Everything in the twenty-first century was so . . . so _detailed_ , technicolor, _high-definition_ , capturable, where before, so much of it was momentary, fleeting, or, at best, blurry for tomorrow. This—this was as real as it got, he thought, hugging Cindy’s sides with his legs, feet dangling outside the stirrups as they drifted ‘round and ‘round.

He had absolutely no idea how long they spent on that lovely carousel. It felt like forever. He hoped it was.

* * *

_A dream is a wish your heart makes._

They swayed together, Tony’s cheek tucked against his own hand flat on Steve’s shoulder, Steve’s arms slung low around his waist, holding him, precious and close. It was so late the hour no longer mattered, the quiet drift of an unseen piano lulling them almost beyond the reach of consciousness as they swayed on their feet. 

They did not stay afloat because they were not tired—far from it, even Steve felt the exhaustion seeping in, reminding him that it had been a day fuller than most weeks, months, even—yet because they wanted to end it together, and it was less conscious decision than simple imperative, like _I need to hold you_ mingled with the gentle swaying movement that had overtaken them.

So they danced and danced, while J.A.R.V.I.S. piped in the song he knew by heart, already, even without its words, together, alone, the last two guests in the Magic Kingdom, the only two people in the parks who were simply being alive, and doing nothing more than enjoying each other’s company.

 _When you’re fast asleep_.

The queen-sized beds were not quite the spacious accommodations they were used to back home, but Steve was used to making do, even in his outsized nature, and Tony, a master of weaseling his way into Steve’s arms, had no complaints to voice. He simply seemed, well and truly, glad to be there, like he would have slept on the marble floor to spend the night in _Cinderella Castle_.

Steve might have, too. Eyelids heavy, he looked up at the ornate canopy, stroking the nape of Tony’s neck with his thumb. There was something so . . . _magical_ about it, something extra- and beyond the ordinary, something unnameably sweet. It was Fantasyland, late at night, with its carousel spinning ‘round and ‘round ‘til they both nearly laughed themselves silly waving for the operator to have mercy, which he, of course, immediately did, albeit with a requisite slowing-down delay.

After they finished taking pictures with their beasts and but before they said their final farewells, the operator gave them each a spectacular pin from his own collection: Tony a rare carousel horse with the overlying armor of a black-and-green dragon, and Steve an equally unusual steed that he claimed was modeled after Peter Pan, with a green cape and pointed cap draped over it. 

Refusing to take them back despite impressing upon them the pricelessness of the pins, he shook their hands warmly and declared instead, “It has been an absolute, one-hundred-percent pleasure to serve you gentlemen.” 

In the darkness, Steve had not been able to read his name tag, but the cast member had never once mentioned their names, either, as if it had not mattered. They had simply been three _gentlemen_ , and it had made the experience all the more charming, like a boys’ club that shouldn’t have existed anymore.

Lying in bed, Steve heard the piano shift to a song he did not know. He asked J.A.R.V.I.S. in a murmur, “Which one is this?”

“It’s from _The Little Mermaid_ , sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. replied, too loudly for the late-night hour, but Tony was so used to his voice that he did not stir, snoring softly against Steve’s chest. “ _Part of Your World_.”

“Thanks.”

“Of course, sir.”

It was a nice tune, and even without the words, Steve found himself humming along by the second chorus, immersed in the experience totally, wanting to know more. To know the magic of it all, the wonder, to enclose himself in it, like a blanket around his shoulders, so that the rest of the world might not exist.

Here, it did not have to.

Here, it was only him and Tony.

What a beautiful world it was.

Even if it was not entirely real, any more than the horses could gallop off their stage and take him to grand heights or the royal couple could make decrees beyond this small land, it was still real, in some small way.

And it was spectacular. 

That was all he would ever ask of it, truly. Just a little real—just for a little while.


End file.
